My Vow

Blank,
staring
straight
at the
tiled
backsplash
of my
mother’s
kitchen.
Bad
chardonnay
to my
left—
ice cubes
in it
because I
tend to
keep it
classy
in life.
I’ve
made
an
executive
decision
that I
have got
to get
back to
normal
and start
drinking—
You see
I tried
to cut
back.
Lets be
real, I’m
a bit
vain about
my figure,
and I try
to stay
healthy.
Alcohol
was bloating
my stomach,
drying my
skin and
deepening
the single
wrinkle I
have between
my brow
that no
amount of
$120/ounce
miracle cream
could fix.
Plus I
had an
awful
memory
partly because
I kept
blacking out
at night.
Good
old
days.
But I had
gotten sufficient
at functioning
while thoroughly
hung over,
or still
drunk
from the
previous night.
At least
I had
stories to
draw upon.
But now,
I’m just
incredibly
unsatisfied
empty and
uninterested
in any
of the
recent “inspirations”
swimming around
within my
head.
No alcohol
must mean
no writing
when it
comes to
me.
So to
aid myself,
back to
normal—
regain,
my passion
to write
I’ll raise
my glass—
after glass.
A bottle
after bottle,
shot after
gag-inducing
shot.
I
will
write
with fervor,
with fiery
zeal,
with life,
again.