Drunk Rantings....

I'm not sure what else to call you, so I'll call you His. (My drunk mind tried to insist on Veda, but since I'm drunk and can't put a reason to that, I'll stick with the more logical for now.)

I've felt the pendulum for years now, and I believe in it. I know that tomorrow will be better. But I have this terrible fear that I can't talk myself out of, which insists that every time the pendulum swings, it swings a little farther, like a child being pushed on a swing by a parent. Yes, tomorrow may be a happier day than I've ever felt...but if that's true, then the next time I feel this way, I may kill myself. Or maybe it will be the time after that. Either way, the increasing swing is dangerous now and will be fatal at some point if I continue to believe in it.

I'm so drunk now that I'm going to stop referring to myself as "she," as I was in the last two posts. Third person does not convince smart people that I was just creating fiction, as I wanted them to think...I know you know it's me. I know you know it's me just as well as I do.

I talked to Aiden this afternoon. I can't tell you how long we chatted online, since alcohol makes it too hard to keep track of time, but I have the feeling it was a while...longer than I thought it was, certainly. I began by threatening to kick his ass if he came to my house to find me. He assured me that he wouldn't, and I believe that he won't, even thought most people would. It's not at all that he doesn't care about me. It's trust - he trusts me to at least keep myself alive until the next time we talk.

They say that if text changes in front of you, you are dreaming and not awake. What if you forget the text, but it has not changed? I know I'm not dreaming. I'm drunk. Yes, it's different from sober, and I may not be quite who I normally am...and I may not remember this tomorrow, or tonight, or even in thirty seconds. But from whatever it was I said, he trusts me to stay alive.

Interestlingly, so do I.

I've never been drunk by myself before. I know I said that, but I said it in the third person, and I feel the need to take responsibility. I really wonder what's going to happen when Kevin comes home. It's now 4:52 and he leaves work at 5:30, getting home around 5:45. Maybe he'll take me to the hospital. Maybe he'll get angry. Maybe he'll just cuddle me all night and tell me stories.

God, I can't even remember what I typed three sentences ago. I can spell, but that's about it. I will not remember this tomorrow. Or maybe I will and I'll deny it because I don't take responsibility for myself when I'm drunk.

A very small part of me is afraid Aiden's going to stop by here on his way home to check on me...but he said he wouldn't, and the larger part of me believes him. That means that I'm alone until Kevin is out of work. That's what I wanted, and it's also not what I wanted. I know I'm fucked up right now. I'm going to read this tomorrow and say, "What the fuck?" But when you can't feel your legs or your tongue, you know you're fucked up. I actually managed to find a bottle opener (which I didn't know we had when I was sober) and open a bottle of wine. Sure, I stabbed myself with the foil, but it's better than I thought I'd do. The only reason I'm bleeding is my razors, and not the foil.

Kevin has been IM'ing me on and off. He reminds me that I haven't eaten, and I remind myself that he will find me tonight...drunk...bleeding...completely fucked up. I wonder if I'll leave this blog open. Obviously he doesn't know about it, but if I'm drunk enough, he might find out. I've been faking it very well, because I know I can still type perfectly even when I've had so much alcohol. What's affected is not my abilities but my decision, and the most dangerous decision I might make (and then forget about until it's too late) is to let him find this blog. He knows about two of my blogs: the one that everyone including my mother follows, and the "private" one that I starting writing for him. He doesn't know about this one - or if he has, he's faked not knowing better than he ever has faked anything else.

Fuck. I'm not gonna remember a think when I'm sober. Apparently quality typing doesn't mean shit with me. I've known how to spell most of the English language since I was six, so I guess it makes sense that good spelling and grammar wouldn't be a reason to declare my own soberness.

I have to apologize to any of you who are actually reading this. Normally I don't do that; I figure that if you are forcing yourself through my rantings, it's of your own accord. But being drunk and knowing that I will be lucky to remember opening my computer tomorrow, I feel the need to apologize for putting you through what has probably been the most pointless blog post I have ever made. This is probably only for me, for me to read in the morning and say, "Oh shit, I did WHAT?"

Isn't that how lessons are learned? Like my experience at that wedding last week. I just reached for the bottle and missed. I know that means I should stop for today...but I want to pass out by the time Kevin gets home, and since I'm still sober, that means I need more alocohol.

Fuck.

How the BLOODY HELL did I get here?

I thank sincerely everyone who has been reading my escpapades. Thought this feels like a suicicde note somehow, I don't see how it would be, since I've lived through every freaky fucking episode of insanity I've had before this.

Then again, that's what happens, isn't it...You think you're fine. You think it can't happen to you. And then it does.

It's taking me longer and longer to fix what I'm typing to the point of leigibility. I don't know what's gonna happen when Kevin comes home and finds me drunk and bleeding, whether he's going to take me to the hospital, leave me, or try to talk me into sanity one more time. If you never hear from me again, it was option four: I died.

Otherwise, it was one of the others.

I can barely type anymore. I can tell you the band I'm listening to, but not the song. I can tell you what I'm wearing, but not what I'll think of this tomorrow. I'm so fucked up. So fucked up. So fucking fucked up. I'll survive this.

But then what?