I can’t write and I can’t drink.  The writing part I’m cool with.  I can never write.  I’m one of the thousands of writers in the world who hates writing and just thinks the title sounds kind of cool.  The writing part is fine.  Fuck the writing.

But I can’t drink.  There is the crisis.  There is the moral drama.  I’m on a month long fast from alcohol.  I have two weeks to go from tomorrow.  Every day, I count down the days left on my fingers.  Like today is the 17th…so I’ll start with my thumb and go 18, 19, 20, 21, 22, 23, 24, 25, 26, 27, 28, 29, 30, 31.  It can also be summed up in the phrase “two weeks” but separating it out like that makes it seem doable.  But it doesn’t seem doable at all.  Why the fuck did I choose January?  It’s the longest month out of the year.  It’s the fucking longest month of the year.  Maybe I’ll take up coke.  Where do you buy coke?

I know what you’re thinking.  How small.  How pathetic are these problems.  Haiti was just hit by a fucking earthquake and people are dying everywhere and there is no health care and everyone is dying and everyone is dead and we’re all going to die.  Well, you know what?  I donated to Haiti.  I did that little thing where I texted “Haiti” on my phone and $10 goes somewhere.  I wrote my congressman about a Public Option.  I have become aware of the fact that life is beautiful and precious and no one should die but I’m going to die and people in Darfur are fucked.  I get it okay.  I really really get it.  And you know what?  I’m a perfectly functional citizen and I pay most of my taxes and I think I deserve a cocktail!

And yes, I love feeling healthy and I’ve been going to the gym and I wrote two more chapters and I’ve seen the gods of peace and tranquility inside my soul and “Yes, Captain Sully did land that plane in the fucking water and we are all one.”  I’ve checked everything off my list.  And now I have to finish this bullshit experiment cause I told my therapist I would and even she was like “why?” but I said it out loud while I was lying on the couch and that means if I don’t do it I’m wasting $80 a week that could be going to the Sudan.  And evidently, New Yorkers are way too cool to need a substance to enhance their lives; because if we do, then we might all forget for two fucking seconds that everyone is going to die and I should write a poem about about boats that turn into planes or planes that turn into boats or abandoned dogs.

I know I will feel some sense of accomplishment at the end of this, but until that last finger is folded neatly against my palm and I have a cold scotch and soda in the other…I am in fact going the fuck out of my mind.