If I were to look at it objectively I would have to say I did better than I imagined I would at one point in my life.
I got the education that I planned on, though I was about five years late since the first attempt set me back the first attempt :
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I went to the community college in the town where I graduated high school the very first summer after graduating. I had spent senior year drunk and stoned (but mainly very drunk). I got away with it though; I had nineteen credits and so only needed two and a half more, yet that still meant a year of daily attendance.
Class of '08 diploma at seventeen.
I continued my attempt at obtaining an education while perpetually being capable of blowing a .18. I figured the sooner I went to college the sooner I could move out from my dads basement. It's not that I didn't like it there, my dad was awesome. One of those "cool to a fault" parents who probably let me get away with more than he should have.
I lasted about four weeks. Then a blackout, a seventy-two hour hold at the local hospital, followed by a sixty day stay in the psyche ward. They had recommended one hundred and twenty days but I asked my Dad to get me out and he did. That's what cool parents do. My staying there wasn't going to change anything. I was lying through my teeth for two months.
I moved back into my Dad's basement, and for the next three months I didn't leave, didn't shower, and didn't have company over. I had Dad buy smokes and vodka until my student loans ran out. Two thousand dollars invested in Phillip Morris and Phillips Vodka. Then as the hangover kicked in I remembered that I actually respect the brevity of life and promised myself that I would never drink again.
As you know, even if you don't know me, I was back to a respectable regular 2-3 times a week drinking (every day), but it was under control because I paced myself (a liter a night), and most importantly, I had a job now.
After showing up hungover for the every single shift I worked (including training) I got called into the office and was it was recommended that I begin to seek help for my alcoholism. I was then asked to never return to the building. I kicked a garbage can on my way out; there was one of those wax paper boats that you see in cafeterias all the time filled with salsa in there. I do feel bad for the hostess who had to wear the warm smell of capsaicin for the rest of her shift.
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I remember leaving the building and someone adding their two cents to the idea that I need inpatient treatment: "Check yourself in man," or something to that effect.
Fuck that guy. I drive my own damn car.
I didn't drive my car that night, not out of fear of DUI/DWI/Refusal of test but more than like because I blacked out at that point.
How do I know?
I did not feel too well when I woke up belly up (I must not of thrown up, would have gone the way of Bon Scott) and the sun had already burned the entire section of my body I like to refer to as my "face". My pants were soaked in piss.
This scene may not have happened on this day. I don't remember anything in the context from this scene or the next few days this seems like a nice place for it.
The one good thing about my face feeling like I held a contest with Freddy Krueger to see who could hold their face in boiling oil longer was that it mean it was summer. I didn't have to converse with a junior high faculty member hungover to the point where it feels like booze is oozing out of my skin (going to see if that's real right now)(YUP, sure is! I'm going to leave that because it is typed already. Moment of discovery thing)).
The next real moment of clarity was when I realized I had just convinced her to move in with me. Nothing quite sobers me up quite like a new live in girlfriend; especially when you it crystallizes in your mind that she will be literally moving half the span of the country to be with me. Definitely going to make my lucky number the numeric anagram of hers.
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