The good thing about booze is that it’s given me a fairly colorful lifetime of experiences to draw from, not to mention a twisted view of life — very useful to an aspiring poet. The downside is that it cost me the health of my liver and pancreas, which have both been acting up the past month — not very useful to an aspiring poet. Pain and lethargy don’t seem to be very conducive to writing.

Booze has also been my muse. And since my last drink almost a month ago, I haven’t been moved to write a gawdamn thing, not even on the days when I’m relatively pain-free and almost energetic. I’m thinking, though, that the psychiatric meds I’m on now are playing a major role there. I fear I’m being transformed from my bottle of rotgut in a paper bag self into a diabetic-friendly vanilla milkshake.

I no like.