life hath dulled itself upon the rough surface of sloth. Beware, unwary goodfolk, for there be marshy depths that await in the journey ahead. Nothing seems to satisfy me but the tinkling of ice as it tumbles into an empty glass, and the hissing of New Zealand Karloff — an inferior but effective brand of vodka — being poured in, accompanied by pre-sweetened orange juice concentrate. I’ve come to the conclusion that my liver holds no more responsibility for my weight than my diet and so I have no qualms any more about threatening the current state of it. The shock of alcohol serves to clear my head of noise, to dissolve and strip away the cloud that hath wrapped itself around my head, blinding and dulling my senses. All paths are laid bare: the rabbits are flung from their hiding holes. How they flinch when they truly see who the predator is!
The dregs of the glass are quickly thrown down my throat. I don’t stop at one. I have another. This time I choose the Rumba, a cheaper alternative to Malibu. The strong coconut flavour stands out proudly through the orange juice mixer, as though the drink had nothing to hide. This is unlike the Vodka, who chooses to give away its presence modestly in the aftertaste only. It is not unpleasant.
The light fades. Darkness engulfs the world. Nothing but a small dim corner at the back of my brain functions as normal. Turmoil and confusion reign once again. I bash my shin against the edge of the small table on which the computer sits. The alcohol dulls the momentary thrill of pain.