Sloane, [DISCONTINUED]

̶f̶̶o̶̶u̶̶r̶

Dear Sloane,

               You always were my anchor when I was drunk. You curbed me so I wouldn't piss myself at the end of the night. Good thing you're not around anymore, I can drink as much as I want. One sip of vodka, two sips of vodka, three sips of vodka, chug the rest of the bottle.

         It really burns. I love it and I hate it. Humankind is so strange; a single bottle of clear liquid holds so much power over our lives, and it doesn't even taste that great. It stings and hurts as it skids down your throat, it's disgusting and vulgar, yet so, so addicting. I've never really liked vodka, I just love this airy feeling it gives me; like my chest is full bubbles so light that I could just float up into the clouds. Drift away from the world and all my problems. That would be nice.

     Alcohol is pretty useful, you know, I know how much you hate it. After we broke up, it became my escape. It seems as though there is a pattern here; I tend to get drunk a lot when drastic life changes get thrown at my face (and leave me sitting on my ass unable to get up).

          I wonder what my mother would say if she could see me now. She wasn't even okay with me wanting to be a writer, she'd definitely be ashamed of me losing my job at the coffee shop. She'd sigh and give me that look like she's about to chastise me, but then she wouldn't say anything. That's probably the worst thing parents can do; tell you they're disappointed with just a look. Because they don't have to say it, you just know. Jim says I've been emotionally distant and it's affecting my work and interactions with customers. Whatever. Who needs a job, steady income, heat, or electricity anyways? Paying taxes is so 2013. So what if my cold loft will get even colder than it already is? So what if I can't get published because my writing is shit? So what if I'm alone in the middle of winter and can't make money or pay bills?

       My mom called yesterday. I let the answering machine pick up. Might as well put it to use; soon I won't be able to pay for the landline. Anyways, she wants to know how I'm doing. I don't want to call her back. I just don't know what to do, Sloane. I'm such a disappoint me, I've never been able to give her anything she wanted from a son. She disapproved of me not wanting to play sports as a child, of me wanting to be a writer, the school I chose. But you, she loved you. And you're gone too.

     I know you'd be disappointed in me, too. You hated when I got drunk. If you could only see me now. You'd ask me what I'm doing with my life, you'd probably brush my teeth and tuck me into bed. Disappointing people seems like a really bad habit of mine. I just don't know how not to, though. I guess this is why I shouldn't have lasting relationships with people.

     I think I drank too much. The vodka is leaking out of my body through my eyes. That must be why they sting so much and why my vision is blurry. This can't be healthy. Shit, I'm getting alcohol all over these letters. Why the hell is this stuff coming out of my eyes? Maybe I should go to the hospital. Who am I kidding, I can't afford that.

     I'm sorry mom, I'm sorry Sloane, I'm sorry to anyone I've ever disappointed (everyone). I think I disappoint myself the most though. I'm disappointed in myself for not being good enough for my mother, I'm disappointed in myself for losing you, I'm disappointed in myself for not being a good enough writer, I'm disappointed in myself for losing my only source of income, I'm disappointed, disappointing, a disappointment. I guess I'll go to sleep before this gets any worse. 

Goodnight Sloane,

Jeremy, the disappointment of a man with burning clear liquid spilling from his eyes