Accept Responsibility

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I'm standing downtown with a buddy of mine. The pickings are slim and it's full of exactly the type of girls you'd expect to see without a man, out, drunk on Labor Day weekend, that didn't leave town, out on the Sabbath.

I'm fucking pissed. I haven't heard from the girl who purports to be my girlfriend in * days.
I'm tolerating shit I would NEVER have tolerated before.
Curiously, something I'd have never thought, I don't much have the inclination to drink.
Before I was sober, I would consciously choose not to drink when upset. That felt too alcoholic.
I realize now, I've become more accepting of that which comes to pass and affects my emotional state. Sure, I'm pissed, but it doesn't even occur to me to drink or use. I've come to know and believe and accept that drinking or using will only make it worse.

On being out sober: I feel basically the same as I did when I was drinking, save I realize it's not melancholy, just seeing this morass for what it is. I see the subtle and not so subtle slide into alcohol and the suppressions and the marring of the interactions. This haphazard mating dance of desperation is trying on the eyes and ears. Guys with shitty beards, girls that should have done their fucking hair or toes or just put on something that kinda looks like they give a shit. Take care of yourself, person.

I'm not interested in low quality companionship of either sex anymore. Their trials and tribulations, and the inability to see their culpability proves tiresome and needlessly melodramatic.
I can't bring myself to bang some broken down broad who doesn't take care of herself. I've been that person too, I'm not judging. But I'm not there anymore.

For the first time in a long time...I'll simply go without it rather than settle.

It's so beat and ratchet and blasé I can barely stand it and I actually look forward to simply being asleep and forgetting this netherworld of the undead. I'd rather be at a fucking AA or NA meeting this shit is so depressing. It's shocking to realize this, but it's progress, or at least something I 'spose.

Like I said, I'm furious, but I don't blame her. I've tolerated a slippery slope of behavior and this is where we now find ourselves.
It won't be a long conversation when she gets back.
I feel the old detachment slide behind my eyes.

My anger metastasizes and I consider my friends who have relapsed. I've already noticed people at local meetings who have quietly disappeared.

It would be easy to give into the temptation. The hushed toned promises and lascivious beckoning of my disease. I caved in virtually every single time alcohol or ***** spoke to me. I gave up anything and everything if it came down to it. I never really set it down, I just dried out for a spell, usually a laughably brief one at that, but mentally, I never really quit.

I flash back to where I'm sitting, outside of this bar, with my buddy, and I realize it's tougher to interact sober. To decide to talk to some chick or whatever.
I know how Gatsby must have felt.

I'm out there. I'm looking.
I started ***** dancing again.
I just haven't seen what I'm looking for....yet.
I'll know it when I see it. I always have.

I've never had a problem approaching the girls I desired...but after 60+ girls, I've hit that point of diminishing returns, perhaps. I'm just simply not seeing anything close to what I'm looking for.
Dicking down some desperate-ish chick (like the one begging me for it the other night) just feels debasing and demeaning to us both. I'm not your Superman nor am I a Band-Aid.

As it is, I'm heading to a meeting, good luck and happy hunting.
Hoist the black flag in my stead.
    - Yrs. in Christ