That's the scariest thing I've ever experienced.
But this, the idea of losing touch with reality—it's up there. People have given me shit about drinking for a long time.
Just Dad at first. Then Daisy. But what do they know? They're supposed to look out for me. Remind me of limits. Act as general buzzkills.
Then other people. Like Chase, the guy who runs the shop. But Chase's brother is an alcoholic. The guy is always looking for cracks. He lives for it.
I always thought they were full of shit. I'm still young. Why can't I have fun?
If it never got in the way of my life, what did it matter that I put bourbon in my cold brew or stayed at parties until the last bottle was empty?
What did it matter that I numbed all the bad shit? It's my liver, isn't it?
Then… bam—
One stupid decision and suddenly everyone is entitled to their judgment. Suddenly everyone is right.
Suddenly, I'm Oliver, the alcoholic, the guy with a problem.
Suddenly, the state of California wants to get on board with the accusations.
The state didn't force me to do shit. But it wasn't much of a choice.
Jail time or attend a three-hour-a-week, ten-week class on "alcohol education."
Maybe I should have picked the jail time.
At least it would have been over fast.
I roll onto my back. Toss my blankets aside. Open the window. It's freezing outside—the temperature swings wildly between afternoon and night in October through May—but it's still too stuffy in here.
And I'm still wound tighter than a drum.
It's too late for coffee. I'm too tired to work. The gym isn't even open.
Which leaves sex.
Do I have shit left? I'm not sure.
I can't go there. The second I close my eyes, I think of Luna.
That self-destructive part of my brain.
Maybe I have a problem. But it's not the alcohol. The alcohol is the fucking solution.
It's this.
That match that will burn the only bridge that matters—
No, the Molotov cocktail that will burn the only bridge that matters is right there.
And it's shiny and new and beautiful.
And so fucking appealing.
Six more weeks. Then I can move out. Find some way to explain it to Daisy.
Do something, anything that won't fuck things up more.
Not this.
Anything but this.
The upside of insomnia—
I'm awake before the rest of the house. I wash my hands, brush my teeth, throw on my gym shorts.
Run to a particularly miserable Bad Religion album. It's cloudy this early. We're a solid half a mile from the beach, but we still get the morning clouds.
I run in the direction of the Pacific. The air gets cooler. The smell of salt mingles with the scent of gasoline.
Mmm, Southern California, so many charms. And expensive as fuck too. It's home, yeah, but if I want to move out, I need to get smart.
Living rent free is a pretty sweet deal. Especially in this part of town.
I'm good at my job, but it's not exactly investment banking. I don't have one-bedroom-near-the-beach money.
Studio next to the freeway… maybe.
I contemplate the matter as I run along the boardwalk. This time of year, this early in the morning, it's all locals. Women in yoga pants jogging before work. Kids on bikes. Teens on skateboards.
Light sky, beige sand, miles and miles of deep blue ocean. It is beautiful. Objectively speaking. If there is such a thing.
The Pacific Ocean. The Western coast of the United States. The sea that spans half a globe.
The water I see every damn day.
I guess it's not the same water. I move onto the sand. For more resistance. Whatever it takes to annihilate my thoughts.
A wave breaks. The water recedes into the mass of ocean.
It no longer exists in that form.
It returns to the Pacific. Still water, still there, but no longer its own entity.
Is that the inspiring part? Or is it something else entirely?
It's a nice thought, the ability to shift shapes, to smooth sand, to find the path of least resistance.
Then there's the raw power of the ocean. Hurricanes, tsunamis, summer storms.
All that force daring people to fuck with it.
I make a mental note to work on a mock-up of a wave. Something different. New. Interesting.
A mermaid maybe. A Disney riff.
Daisy watched The Little Mermaid all the time when she was a kid. She always admired Ariel for her curiosity, her drive, her sense of wonder.
How does she do that? Find all this beauty in the world? So much she's willing to part with her fucking voice?
I mean, yeah, if I had the choice between speaking and fucking, I'd choose the latter too.
But it's more than that.
It stays in my head as I run home. Fix a dark roast. Drink two cups.
Until Luna trots down the stairs. "I smell coffee." She rubs her eyes. Brushes her messy hair behind her ear. "Please tell me there's coffee."
"I made extra, yeah." I pour her a cup.