[In my ears: Wall of Sound, American Hi-Fi]

My particular brand of soul-sickness does not limit my alcoholism to just drugs and alcohol – I do everything alcoholically. I’m a reality-adverse pleasure junkie escape artist. This perfectly normal blend of oxygen and nitrogen that you all float around in is clearly not my native atmosphere.

I’m not sure I’ll ever figure out exactly where it is I hail from. Point is – I’m uncomfortable, I’ve always been uncomfortable and I need out. OUT.  Like smoking a pipe all day long but no longer getting high but I keep on lighting up again and again and again – if I find a song that makes me feel things that I like to feel I will listen to that bitch until every drop of feeling is squeezed out of its noise and it’s a dry husk that I’m completely sick of but i beat it like a dead horse because i remember how it made me feel 3 weeks ago and i want it back – I need it back because it felt like heaven and I need my fix goddammit.

If I paced myself I could probably get a lot more joy out of it but as it is I’ve got to let the ravaged track recharge for a good 6 months to a year before I can successfully tap it again. Like relapsing and getting high for the first time in a year and a half – holy shit. Holy. Shit. That was incredible until the part where I lost my mind and ended up in the mental hospital again.

I do everything alcoholically: Food

Currently beating the shit out of this Mediterranean hole in the wall down the street. Baba Ganoush and soft warm pita and crisp Greek salad with plenty of non-lettuce ingredients that are proportionally well balanced and fresh as a daisy. I can’t afford it but I have no control – I’m there every other night. It’s all I want and I want it now. Because it’s mother fucking heaven in my mouth (that’s what she said – tsk! That’s not a very feminist thing to say). Can’t help it. I’m powerless.

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Baba ganoush

I do everything alcoholically: Fantasy

Historic record shows that if I’m even remotely attracted to someone I lose the ability to speak to or even look at said person. It’s been that way since grade school and apparently I haven’t matured much past that point. But this one time: In school (the 1st time) in Chicago there were two bars near campus (the south side isn’t exactly known for its hospitable nightlife). The first bar is
half a block south of my apartment, the second bar is 5 additional blocks in the same direction. Bar #1 was home to Max the bartender and I was smitten beyond functioning. I worked at bar #2 so I was at a bar pretty much every night of the week. I got pretty good at perfecting the precise amount of alcohol i needed over any given period of time to amass some semblance of courage. Except it wasn’t courage – it was a fickle imposter that could only ever hope to approximate such a respectable and desirable quality.

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Bar #2: In the basement of this fine structure. Yup.

So we’re shutting down bar #1 every other night and I feel like a rockstar because Max keeps some of us around to drink free Heineken until dawn – far too many times each week for me to be able to even pretend I’m going to try and go to class. During normal business hours I manipulated friends for “just one drink” and still think I did a damn good job at keeping up sparkling conversation while watching him like a creep. He played scrabble with patrons when it was slow, and read fat worn texts when there was no one who wanted to play, and even though I think books are sexy as fuck I could never remember what he told me he was reading because I was distracted by the beautiful ink scrawled all over his arms. He pumped Tegan and Sara through the speakers, ate spaghetti all sloppy like a child, and looked at me as if I were something marvelous because I only approached him when my inebriation allowed me to be witty and shameless. This dark-haired handsome man, charming, intelligent and kind mixer of beverages, was the closest thing I’ve ever come to celebrity. When he finally kissed me in a recess behind the bar in some early morning hour, someone was watching and the next day – I’m getting accosted while working at my own bar down the street. Everyone knew and it was scandal because he had a girlfriend and I couldn’t handle it and when I left to study abroad a few weeks later I couldn’t even say goodbye, now matter how high and/or drunk I got. It was excruciating.

Point – The next year I crisscrossed Italy in train after train and on every single trip I put on Seal’s Kissed by a Rose and and re-lived that kiss hundreds of times. I was thousands of miles away but I could feel it. I concocted every possible drama filled scenario of how we would end up together, and I picked my favorite ones and lived them out in my brain in a way that was sharp and real. I surreptitiously (i think)  smiled and cried to myself over an overblown ephemeral fantasy while hurtling back and forth between Pisa and Rome, all over Tuscany and one miserable ride south to Sicily. I bled that boy dry to feed the heroine in my head that let me feel excitement and love and bliss that had no basis in reality because I needed my fix. In the real world anxiety was eating me alive and I was drowning in insecurity and I needed my escape. Just like my tolerance to pot would someday sky rocket, after about 6 months the fantasy stopped working but I kept on trying to find that headspace because it felt so amazing and I wanted it back. I wanted the fantasy back – not him. When I returned to Chicago I went back to the bar and … nothing. And even though it no longer even felt good, like, at all, I didn’t stop thinking about him until the next guy came along a year later. And that’s it own special disaster.

I do everything alcoholically: This mother fucking blog and my current bout of word-ing. Tomorrow concludes the 3rd week a 16 week semester and I haven’t done shit. Kinda how I would blow off class to the point of calamity when I had all my booze and drugs beckoning. No, Lorali, see, you’re going to bring the textbook to campus and start studying for your impending exam. Nope. Dick around on a computer in the library posting shit, formatting shit, finding images, writing a dollop. Because it’s all light speed-y compared to my archaic “I’m sorry ma’am your computer is officially ‘obsolete’ and we can no longer service it” MacBook.

Gotta go – time to scour the internet for sweet shit that I will never buy for about 2 hours. But first, leftover Baba Ganoush!

What I’m after: A chunky black sparkly handcuff jewelry bracelet

Continued… “Remember That Handcuff Bracelet I Wanted? Here’s Why”

 

*images not my own

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