aut vincere aut mori

it's been two weeks.
i coast along in vodka-sprite-induced lucidity, hating the long days and the even longer nights.

there is no sleep for the weak and even less for the dying.

i have made friends with alcohol, but i have not made peace with it yet.
the constant need for the anesthesia brought on by triple-distilled spirits is creating a dependency i am still denying.

my right hand is bruised from an attempt to inflict pain on the wall--
innocent witness to my self-destruction.

i have lost all instinct of self-preservation, self-respect.
i have no love left to my name.

hey boy, a bucket of ice and your best, please.