Tags » Stream Of Consciousness

I No Longer Drink Vodka

In my early twenties I would have been drunk already, attending the Boy Scout Pancake Breakfast, with champagne in my thermos, only eating food because someone else was paying for it, and I knew I had to eat something at some point, besides the liquid courage that would fill my stomach, for the day that lay ahead of me would be long and tiring, walking across town, drunk, gathering friends around AC, starting a party in the name of history, when really it was all an excuse to proclaim my independence, to be drinking illegally, to attend the city parade with my family and spiked coffee, to meet up with friends and vodka at the small-town festival, to wander town from parent’s house to parent’s house with whiskey in my water bottle, only staying longer if the legal drinkers were not around, it was a day to be yelled at by my mother for not spending more time with my family, for reliving painful memories,  of the last Fourth my father was alive for, when I ditched him for friends to watch the fireworks, when a picture was taken that I would never be a part of, when a moment passed that I cannot get back, when being with family was too painful for me to handle, so I got drunk instead with friends, ones who became a second family to me in the long run, ones who took me in and allowed me to pass out hammered on their couch, ones who sumblimitaly played country music while I was asleep, so that I would wake up knowing songs that I hate to sing, so that I could ask a friend to turn off the music in the morning, being paralyzed by alcohol poisoning, so that I could recover on the couch where I had slept with his best friend the night before, so I could forget what kind of person I am in the moment, to go wild in a small town where I was known by everyone, as the girl who lost her father too young, as the girl who drank a fifth of whiskey in one evening, as the girl who always had a blunt rolled and ready, so I could make new memories while blacked out, forgetting everything the moment I woke up hungover, only cherishing these moments once they pass on to become memories, only wishing I could go back to these times once I have stopped drinking heavily, no longer trying to relive that which was once killing me, no longer living in a small town like AC, no longer drunk wandering, no longer delaying the processing of my emotions, recognizing now the hell I was raising, with a two liter of vodka in my closet, which lasted only a few months in my lifestyle, even with the supplementation of cheap beer and weed, I drank to forget about the American Dream, to forget about my father leaving, to forget about what I was doing to my once athletic body, I was working against seeing my own worth, choosing instead to drown my thoughts with a bottle, and trusting my friends to see my value, to take care of me when I self-inflicted alcohol poisoning, when betrayed my own body, when I didn’t see a reason to survive any longer, these friends not only passed me a bottle, they provided a chaser of love, a mixer of acceptance, an understanding that I was struggling with the will to live, so they made life worth going along with, they shared my vodka, and increased my tolerance for learning to live again.

Wandering Wordsmith

SoCS - Tossing and Turning

Toss your troubles to the wind, folks. Linda is back with  Stream of Consciousness Saturday:

Your Friday prompt for Stream of Consciousness Saturday is “toss… 228 more words

Blog

The Words: Food

What shall I eat? I’ll just have one more. Food. Food. Food. Food. Food, Food. Food. Food. Food. What can I eat? What can I get away with? 382 more words

SoCS - yolk covered arms and other elementary school stressors

I’ve often thought “toss your cookies” was a particularly cute description for puking your guts out. I mean, really, tossing makes me think of gently lobbing a pillow onto the bed and throwing up is  294 more words

Blog Event

Winter introspection

Would anyone notice
if Pluto exploded?
Would anyone really care
if all the other galaxies imploded

Only our rock
number 3 of eight
A infintesimal… 34 more words

Poem

Happy America

This used to be a holiday, and yet I find myself working away the day already, I find myself feeling guilt for not waking up early, I find myself in the same place that I was yesterday, dreaming of ever even seeing the American Dream, and recognizing that it may never be within my generation’s reach, and why Millenials feel no patriotism, why we view ourselves as the world’s children, because in the world of the internet there are no clear boarders drawn, and we were all raised in this magical world, not knowing the seperation from porn, not knowing the deprevation of voice, not knowing how to speak to express ourselves outside of tweets for the entire world, our existance is on a scale that is global, not national, and there is no pride left, no backing of the country we live in, no ideals worth taking from the founding fathers of this nation, because it was revealed that Washington was a racsist, and Lincoln was only human, and independance was an idea that masked the killing of an entire native race, a new nation was born on the backs of those who were made slaves, those who ended up being the majority of the American race, those who are still in the streets protesting for equality, and those who are still silently waiting their turn to cry injustice against our dominate society, since this country was not built on the sacrafice of one but many, all of those who died thinking they were fighting to save something, fighting against slavery, fighting for freedom of speech, fighting for a right to an attorney, fighting for the American Dream, to live outside of the rule of a British queen, and yet we never shyed away from dictating, we never practiced sacraficing our privillage, we never allowed others to tell us our dream is dead, or that it was stillborn, an idea with no real backing, no real life left in it, no real emotion behind it anymore, taking the dream and making it our selfish calling, the thing that will lead us to more money, the chase that we have all become so addicted to pursuing, running ourselves into the ground before the race has even started, born immediately into the pressures of society, the hidden fights that will disturb our psyches, the endentured servants’ generational suffering, the abusive relationships forever repeating again and again, never learning from the mistakes of our fathers, showing up yearly to celebrate this holiday, with explosives not meant to remind us of the wars we started, and cheap beer to numb our overweight bodies, hamburgers and hotdogs consumed to support our national dependence on overprocessed foods, and time with family and friends outdoors taking in the summer on the northern hemisphere, while never considering that the other side of the world is cold, so caught up in the celebrations of the Fourth that we all forgot what happened years before, so consumed by fulfilling the sterotypes of an American, while not holding an ounce of the true spirit once found in them.

Wandering Wordsmith

Disillusionment

Disillusionment has become an occupational hazard seemingly, for those working in the social sector. Two years after graduating with a Masters degree, a bunch of us got into a video call – as has become the norm of this pandemic era – to meet, greet and wonder what has become of everyone after they set out on their paths in their quest to change a small part of the world. 602 more words

Stream Of Consciousness