All day long, I kept thinking to myself, "this is a good day" and in doing so, I was basically giving myself permission to "celebrate" tonight by getting wasted. I deserved it, see? "Celebrating" a night is no different than any other night, I tend to get fucked up alone on a regular basis. Calling it a celebration, allowing myself to do it guilt-free, is the key. I came home, the sad sack that I am, and polished off the remaining half bottle of whiskey from last night, ate a ton of shit and sat down to watch fucking Netflix. As the booze lightened my mood and the food calmed my belly, I was ready for more. I was anticipating more. I opened up my last bottle, started walking to my counter to pour and then dropped the fucking thing onto the floor. In my half-drunken-stupor, my reflexes were a bit slow and it pretty much drained all out. I slurped up what I could, but since I hadn't mopped in a week, I was a bit wary of drinking dust, crumb, old fallen pasta and hair infused whiskey, though I did think twice about it. So now here I sit, my buzz wearing off, too full to leave the house for more booze, and what would be the point anyway? All the liquor stores are closed. I replaced food with booze, another of my addictions and now I'm a sad, fat sack of shit gorged and ready for bed. Maybe tomorrow will be another good day, so then I can actually celebrate... I sure in the hell deserve a good celebration.