In our twisted society, we’re always playing the role of protectors and critics, telling folks how to damn well live their lives. We impose these artificial values, judge the weak, the unhappy, the ones who can’t seem to make it. We pity the drunkards, like we give a damn, without really giving two shits about the real causes behind their misery. Man, there’s a load of superficial people out there, living their shallow-ass lives, getting off on thinking they’re better than the poor bastards next door. Steer clear of those pricks, ’cause they’re soulless, living in their materialistic little bubble.
But let me tell ya, alcohol, my friend, it’s a goddamn marvel. It’s like this magical elixir, purifying, disinfecting wounds, and yeah, even disinfecting your very soul. It burns, it warms, it heals. Don’t you ever be afraid to reach for that bottle when you’re hurtin’ deep inside. Clean that stain, deep in your heart, clean it good. ‘Cause only then can the healing begin. But don’t you dare touch it if you don’t need it. Don’t you dare use it just to cool off. It’s meant for the true alcoholics, the ones who know how to wield it like a goddamn surgeon’s scalpel. Social drinkers? They’re just a bunch of superficial assholes, just like the ones I mentioned earlier.
We’re all wired to chase success, to plaster on that fake-ass smile for the rest of the world. But don’t you ever be afraid to embrace your weaknesses. Don’t you ever be afraid to fall flat on your face, to hit the pavement hard. When my old lady left me, I was out there huntin’ for love, ended up on some godforsaken trip with the dumbest son of a bitch I know, draggin’ me to a den full of hookers. That sure as hell wasn’t the kind of love I was lookin’ for. But it was an all-inclusive resort, so I anchored myself at the bar, drownin’ in one drink after another, shootin’ the shit with strangers about love and life, until I binged for God knows how many days and wound up sick as hell for three goddamn days straight.
My so-called friend, he up and left, had the nerve to accuse me of bein’ an alcoholic without takin’ a second to consider that he’s the one who dragged my sorry ass to that shithole. Then another buddy of mine, over the phone, he tells me to embrace that abyss, that Bythos, ’cause in there lies the devil and God almighty Himself. You gotta hit rock bottom, he says, ’cause it’s only then that you start seein’ things differently, start seein’ that glimmer of hope to kickstart your sorry excuse for a life all over again. Most of the time, it ain’t the outside world that’s screwing you over; it’s the way you’ve gone and organized your own damn life. Maybe every damn thing you’ve done up to now was wrong, and maybe, just maybe, alcohol was the only thing helpin’ you find your true self.
So when I finally came to, I grabbed my laptop and in four crazy days, I wrote the book that would flip the world on its damn head. And you know what? I also made a promise to myself right then and there: never touch the bottle again.