Note: The subject line is a quote from 29/1/2006 by Habosh.
It’s Saturday morning in the semi filthy flat I share with Habosh. He is still lolling and groaning in his room whist I sit in the combination kitchen-everything room scribbling and contemplating the tea, bramborovy salat and tuna sitting before me. My flatmate finished off the perfect Indian Pulan I concocted yesterday after stumbling home from one of his thrice weekly pub nights at circa 3.30 (I was already holed up in my room, covered tightly by my duvet, feigning sleep). The result of this is the improvised breakfast (lunch - it is 13.45) before me. I shall take a few tentative bites now.
Not bad, really. I had no milk for my tea (I’m sure Habosh consumed that, as well - again, I don’t mind), so I citronified it. It’s the first time I’ve had black tea with lemon since - er - well, as far as I know, since the dawn of time.
Now that I am writing in this neglected little journal once again, there are a few issues concerning my life I’d like to address. The first is my rampant alcoholism. My dear reader should know it has been a problem in the past, but it has most surely reached a terminal apex these days, and during the past year or so. The crux of the matter is this -> I usually spend four to six days drinking from my waking hour until I finally pass out ten to fourteen hours later, sometimes with incrementally worse pass-out sessions during the waking time. Then, my body slowly starts rejecting the wine / vodka / beer / whatever and cigarettes and I cease.
The next two to four days are spent in recovery or detoxification mode, where my body aches, trembles, has hot and cold flashes, and has an acute pain around where the liver probably is. Oh - not to mention a very high, erratic pulse rate surely combined with a soaring dyastolic blood pressure (I have not checked this for sure, but assume it is so).
Then the cycle begins again.
Usually this is set off by going to a pub with someone - most often Chris.
I am on the third day of recovery at the moment and feeling mas o menos normal. BUT I see Chris tonight at Yukon to play pool. Surely there will be beers. I need to resist from purchasing any other alcohol, storing it in my backpack and consuming it when I arrive home, beginning once again the binge that will eat away my week and destroy my body, whittle it away a little more.
Basically, if this binge - recover - repeat cycle continues unabated, my body will finally quit. Bob will be no more.
I wonder if marijuana has the same effect on me during recovery. In the past, it has not, but Habosh just spoke of rolling a joint and it worries me a bit. It worries me more that I said yes. I have to say NO to excess alcohol tonight. In a phrase: no more drinking alone at home. It is bad news. It is killing me.
Bob: I read that green and black tea help against high blood pressure.
Habosh: Yes, against cancer, as well.
Bob: And against liver failure.
Habosh: So green tea helps protect against death?
Bob: Yeah. Before a gunfight, you should drink lots of it.
I’m awaiting the completion of Habosh’s laptop’s virus scan so I can play a bit on the internet and especially discover if I have any messages or email from my lovely Lucia. I hear Habosh clearly in his room cursing at the one man shooter game he is playing and has been playing incessantly for hours. It is remindful of Jayson and his ilk and their obsession with such things. At least Christian does not partake in such trivialities, though he has his own irritating obsessions - notably conspiracy theories.
I think I am slowly reviving my own obsession with women, what with the receeding alcohol in my system during this recovery period. There s Zuzanka, the sluttish Slovak from Eva’s long ago cottage Sylvestr party with whom I have intermittently kept in touch and who used to frequent my flat near Andel on Sunday mornings circa 1am. She loves vodka. That’s one bad point: I’ll be drinking with her often if we’re together, as we did for eleven hours last Monday. Uff…
