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graychocobo · 6 years

Note

21, for the dialogue prompts, with Promnis?

(Omg I’m so sorry that this is so late. Life decided to kick my ass for the past week or so. Anyways I hope you enjoy it!)

Prompt: “I may have had a few shots.”

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Several months had passed since Noctis had been taken into the crystal. The hours of daylight were slowly dwindling away. People were beginning to take notice and panicing.The daemons had been growing quickly in strength with each additional second of darkness. Refugees, gathered in the larger cities in order to find safety. Hunters, Glaives, and Crownsguard worked together to protect the civilians.

Everyone had to step up and do their part. Noctis’ friends were no exception. They were there to protect and rebuild what remained of Lucis while their king was away. Gladiolus and Prompto worked hard on training new recruits and going on missions to gather supplies, rescue civilians, guard transport vehicles, and relay messages to other outposts. Ignis worked tirelessly on the political and strategical front. He helped to come up with plans on how to build town defenses and come up with strategies to fight off the monster hordes that lurked in the darkness.

Prompto made his way into the tiny ‘apartment’ he shared with Ignis inside of the former Leville Hotel. It was the royal suit that they occasionally used to stay in when the hotel was open. It was slightly rearranged to make room for a makeshift kitchen, and a tiny living area separate from their bed room. Although they were still trying to keep it on the down low it wasn’t much of a secret anymore that Prompto and Ignis were an item. They had started dating just a few weeks before they set off on that fateful road trip.

“Hey Iggy, I’m back! Iris gave us some veggies from her garden. I’m thinking I’m going to try and cook a veggie medley stew for dinner.” Prompto said as he placed the bag of groceries down on the counter. It wasn’t rare for Ignis not to answer immediately, but Prompto always would check on his blind boyfriend just to make sure he was okay.

“Iggy?” Prompto curiously poked his head into the living room area. Inside he saw Ignis sitting down on the couch with his head in his hands. In front of his boyfriend was an open bottle of alcohol and a glass half full on the small table. It was unusual for Ignis to drink on his own without prompting as he tended to get overly emotional when buzzed. Although sometimes that was the only way Ignis knew how to process his bottled-up troubles.

“I-Ignis? Are you feeling alright, babe? Is your eye bothering you again?” Prompto asked as he slowly made his way over to his boyfriend. Every once in a while, the wounds Ignis received from his fight against Ardyn in Altissia would ache and throb. The wounds that had robbed Ignis of his sight were still not completely healed. Prompto couldn’t even begin to imagine how painful it was.

Ignis turned his head towards the direction of Prompto’s voice. “Apologies, Love. I didn’t mean to worry you. I was just lost in thought.” Ignis carefully reached out and caressed Prompto’s cheek.

“Don’t worry about it, dude. You have nothing to apologize for.” Prompto answered. “Anyways…It’s rare to see you breaking out the liquor. How much have you had already?”

“I might have had a few shots.” Ignis replied. The red tint on his cheeks indicated that he probably had already consumed more than that. “Would you want to join me, darling?”

“I’ll just have a nip. I still have no alcohol tolerance though.” Prompto chuckled before he took a sip from Ignis’ glass. As long as he didn’t take more than one shot Prompto figured that it wouldn’t be enough to get drunk. “So… What’s been on your mind, cupcake?”

Ignis remained silent for a few moments. “It’s irrelevant. Just letting my thoughts get the better of me.” Ignis sighed as he took another sip. His hand was a bit shaky as he put the glass back down. The glass slipped out of his grip at the last second before hitting the table. Luckily the glass did not spill or break. “No matter, Darling, I assure you that nothing is wrong.”

Prompto wasn’t buying it. He always disliked the fact that Ignis tended to bottle up his emotions and handle problems all by himself. Ignis rarely allowed himself open up when he felt troubled. Part of it was due to his boyfriend’s pride, but it also was because Ignis wasn’t used to needing support. The man was great at taking care of others, but tended to have issues looking after himself mentally.

“Iggy….If something is bothering you then it isn’t irrelevant. You don’t need to put on a strong front for me.” Prompto frowned. “Babe…You know I’m always here for you, right?”

Ignis opened his mouth as if he was going to protest but instead let out a small soft sob. “I do, Prompto. I really I do.” He took in a deep breath. It was hard for him, but he knew that being open sharing both good times, bad times, hopes, worries, and dreams with each other was important. “It’s just I don’t want to be a hindrance. You have been working so hard recently and I just didn’t want to add to that stress.”

“…..Iggy…..You don’t have to-” Prompto was going to say something, but got cut off by his lover.

“I’m just so frustrated.” Ignis whimpered as a single tear made its way down from one ‘good’ eye. “I detest feeling like this….” Prompto didn’t say anything but hugged his lover gently as he cried. “I used to be able to do everything on my own, but ever since I’ve become blind it has been difficult. I’ve started getting the hang of getting around on my own with a cane, but I’m frustrated with how slow my progress has been. I want to get back to how skilled I was at fighting and cooking. I don’t want people to think of me as an invalid. I can’t go anywhere by myself without someone thinking I am helpless and incapable of even the simplest things. Normally I am able to push these thoughts out of mind, but today it has been a bit harder than normal. I feel like I’ve let you down somehow…That I might not be worthy of remaining by your side…..”

It was a lot to take in. Prompto had a good idea how hard Ignis worked on persevering through adjusting to his new ‘normal’. This wasn’t the first time that Ignis needed to vent his frustrations of his situation, and certainly this wasn’t going to be the last. What was harder for Prompto to take in was the fact that somehow his lover had gotten the idea that he wasn’t worthy of their relationship.

Before replying Prompto planted a kiss directly on Ignis’ cheek. A hand brushed away one of the tears falling down. “Ignis…I need to to listen to me. You are one of the most talented, amazing, inspiring, and strongest people I know. You have never let me down once in my entire life. I love you so much, Iggy. There is no reason to think that you are letting me down. I’m the luckiest guy in the world for being able to be with you.” Prompto hugged Ignis again. “I know things are hard right now, but it will get better. I know it is hard to believe right now but you have made a ton of progress since Altissia. Every day I see you gaining more confidence walking around. You haven’t bumped into anything in our apartment after our first month here… Give yourself some credit, yeah?”

Tears were still flowing out of Ignis’ eye as he gave a slight nod. The advisor was still rather emotional but he seemed to be calming down a bit now. Ignis made no indication that he was going to speak again, so Prompto continued to do so. “You don’t have to handle everything by yourself, Ignis. I’m here for you. We can handle anything life throws at us, together. If anyone speaks down to you or makes you feel uncomfortable it speaks more about them than it does about you. Some people are always going to be ignorant just like there are always people who are assholes. You can’t control them, but you always can control how you handle them. In the worst case you just need to tell them to fuck off.”

Prompto paused to take a breath. He wanted to take a second so he could carefully word what he wanted to say next. “Please don’t take this the wrong way……..I’m not going to lie, but it will take a while for you to feel like your skills are back to normal. There is nothing wrong with feeling impatient about it though. On the bright side it will still probably happen sooner than you expect. So, glass half full, right? Even better is the fact that I can even help out more with your training and we can start cooking together. Your body already has the muscle memory part done, so now we just need to work on your confidence. Everything is going to be alright.”

A small smile finally appeared on Ignis’ face as he pulled the sunshine blond into his arms and whispered ‘Thank you. I needed to hear that.” into his lover’s ear. It was amazing how his boyfriend seemed to make his insecurities and worries disappear. Mentally he was still exhausted, but Ignis was grateful for Prompto’s loving support.

After things had calmed down the two of them talked about much happier things while drinking a few more shots between them. They talked about everything from chocobos to memories of how their relationship had started. It wasn’t long before they lost track of time altogether. The vegetables and dinner plans were completely forgotten about. Eventually the two love birds fell asleep in each other’s arms on the couch completely content.

#promnis #prompto argentum #ffxv prompto #Ignis Stupeo Scientia #ffxv ignis #Prompto x Ignis #fanfic #Idk why but I see Ignis as an emotional drunk

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route22ny · 6 years

Photo

“You have to imagine it as it was 50 years ago. Folks would roll down ol’ U.S. 95 in their two-toned, fishtailed Buicks, headed for Las Vegas. As they approached Downtown, they would be dazzled by a parade of neon: tumbling dice and roulette wheels, crescent moons and shooting stars, signage for blocks of motels and auto courts. Back before 1-800 or dot-com, the night’s accommodations were chosen upon arrival and a cascade of lights above a cool swimming pool or a sign advertising 'color T.V.’ and 'air-conditioning' promised luxury to weary travelers.

“Today, the lights are dark and the only vacancies are the lots where the Blue Angel and the Par-A-Dice Inn once welcomed visitors; same goes for Lucky Cuss Motel, whose legacy still sparkles up Las Vegas Boulevard traffic medians, thanks to the Neon Museum.

“Most of the motels are empty—broken neon tubes, weeds sprouting between faded parking lot lines. The Gables still advertises 'nice rooms' and curtains still decorate many of the boarded-up windows under its fairy-tale-peaked roofs; the shell of a payphone hangs on a red brick wall. The Alicia 1, 2 and 3 were once the Las Vegas Motel, Fremont Motel and Star View Motel, respectively. Now they all sit vacant beneath crookedly nailed particle board. The Travelers Motel, with its elaborate gateway, terracotta-tiled roofs and radio tower, seems like someone could whip it into shape and fill it with hipsters like they do in Austin or Joshua Tree, but it’s doubtful any well-shod feet will tread these grounds until they become a parking lot.

“Whether open or closed, the same sign hangs in the window: “No visitors allowed after 10 p.m.” Even motels still serving patrons seem to have one foot in the land of the dead—broken signs, drained pools, doors hanging open into darkened rooms. An anti-meth poster hangs near a notice advising patrons that there will be a “$5 storage fee for all items left in room” by the check-in at the Safari. Bedspreads fly on a line outside the Sky Ranch. Desert Moon Motel seems the most prosperous, but the neon advertising “free XXX movies” probably has more to do with that than the well-maintained cacti. These days, surviving on Fremont Street takes more than pretty lights …”

“The swimming pool is filled with rocks at one boarded-up motel. A short walk away, pigeons rest inside a motel sign whose missing letters make it all too easy to fly in...

“The fenced-off, decades-old properties are on Fremont Street in downtown Las Vegas, and all are owned by Zappos chief Tony Hsieh’s Downtown Project.

“Hsieh has pumped money and foot traffic into the city’s core, giving the area a sorely needed boost of commerce. But for the most part, his group isn’t doing anything with a cluster of closed motels on Fremont that sit blocks from the street’s nightlife scene.

“Formed in 2012, Downtown Project went on a real estate buying binge as part of its $350 million campaign to fund tech startups, restaurants and other ventures. With a $200 million allocation, real estate constituted the bulk of Hsieh’s plans, with his group assembling a portfolio of some 90 properties.

“Among other things, it operates apartment buildings and retail complex Downtown Container Park, and it partnered with Arizona real estate firm The Wolff Co. to develop Fremont9, a five-story apartment complex under construction next to Atomic Liquors.

“Hsieh’s group also bought motel properties farther east on Fremont, in an area that was a 'hotbed’ for drugs, prostitution and other crime, according to management. And it bought them not knowing what it would do them.

“It launched redevelopment efforts at the Fergusons. But otherwise, its Fremont Street motels are boarded-up and fenced-off, with a noticeable touch-up: Plywood sheets covering doors and windows were painted to look like cartoonish doors and windows.

“Downtown Project’s real estate portfolio manager, John Curran, spoke with the Las Vegas Review-Journal last month about the motels and other properties. The interview has been edited for length and clarity:

Do you have plans to develop other residential projects besides Fremont9?

We don’t have any specifics to share, but it’s certainly something we’ll be looking to do. Fremont9 is going to open by the end of the year. We’ve gotten an incredible outpouring of interest, more than 700 pre-leasing inquiries, and we’re still a few months away from opening.

It looks like the only motel with any notable project plans on file with the city, and the only one you’ve started any work on, is the Fergusons. What’s being built there?

Tony Hsieh lives in what we call the Airstream Village, which is condensing and moving to the back of Fergusons. A section of the motel has been demolished, and that will be a courtyard with Airstream trailers, a pool, a small stage area and lounge area. That’s basically Tony’s residence with a bunch of his friends and other downtowners. The next phase will be for the front of Fergusons. We hope to have two food and beverage anchor tenants here. There will be boutique retail, and the second floor would have office space. We would do major renovation work on the inside.

Do you have a next motel in mind for redevelopment?

The next block will be the Travelers. We’re not prepared to share anything about that; it’s still very fluid. Candidly, we bought all these blocks a few years ago with no idea of what we were going to do with them, but they were a hotbed for a lot of unsavory activity — crimes, drug use, prostitution, all those things. We knew someday that market conditions would allow for redevelopment, but in the meantime, us boarding them up, fencing them off, really gave us a buffer from a lot of that activity. It’s not great to look at a boarded-up motel, although we have stenciled designs on the doors, so at least aesthetically, it looks a little better than just plywood.

Why buy all these motels and sit on them?

People think, ‘Wow, $350 million, that money’s going to last forever.’ Ultimately, we’re restricted by bandwidth and resources. If we opened a major development on 14th and Fremont today, I don’t know if the market’s ready for that. It doesn’t get the foot traffic down there just yet. It’s not uncommon for developers to buy things and sit on them and wait until market conditions allow for development. We have a massive portfolio of real estate; a lot of them are ripe for future developments. We can’t do it all at once. We just opened a bar, Corduroy, for instance, and that was a major production. We’re focusing on Fremont9 and some other renovation projects. We’re never not busy.

For the motels, do you get calls from developers looking to do joint ventures? Like the project with Wolff, is that what you’re looking to do?

Definitely. We recognize two things: One, everybody’s bandwidth is limited, and we also figured out what our core competencies are. With Fremont9, we recognize that Wolff can take us further and better than we could on our own. We’ve talked to boutique hotel operators about renovating these motels and other properties. It’s definitely something we’re open to.

Have you considered knocking the motels down, scraping the sites and starting from scratch?

We have; we’ve even probably got hard demo numbers. But from an urban design perspective, I think it’s much more aesthetically appealing to look at a boarded-up motel that has some sort of history — perhaps some people find some charm and character in them. I think it is actually more interesting looking at a vacant, boarded-up motel rather than just pieces of dirt.

Do you get vandals or people climbing the fence?

That happens. It’s a never-ending battle. We’ve got around-the-clock security presence in the neighborhood. They usually report graffiti to us before the city gets it. We’re usually pretty quick to address it; we paint over any graffiti. But it’s always a moving target.

Following up on a recent post about apparently doomed midcentury motels on the east side of Las Vegas’s traditional downtown, the two articles above clarify the status of these properties: Top and middle photos taken August 23, 2018 by me. Bottom photo by Bizuayehu Tesfaye, accompanying the second section of text above including interview, from the September 2017 article Downtown Project’s closed Fremont Street motels remain stagnant by Eli Seagall in the Las Vegas Review-Journal, copied here in full to spare you the pop-ups, adblocker detection, and other BS on the Review-Journal website. First section of text from No Vacancy: The Last Motels on Fremont Street by Lissa Townsend Rodgers, December 2016.

#Las Vegas #midcentury motel #commercial architecture #nevada #original photography #bizuayehu tesfaye

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unpopcorned · 7 years

Text

“Hey, ‘Sika, you seen my headphones?”

“I’ve been home - like, six minutes and you’re already asking.”

“Y’seen ‘em or not?”

Masika shrugs a shoulder, pulls a lavender shirt from her suitcase and tosses it onto the bed, “In the living room. By the recliner.”

“Thanks,” Even with her telling him, Sam still lingers in the doorway of her old room, eyeing her. He’s gone through another growth spurt, a little over six feet now. It looks like he hasn’t really gotten used to it - hands and feet still a little too big. She can’t help but wondering when he’ll stop shooting up, he’s twenty now, “You like it out there?”

“Out where?”

“In the city. All those people. College.”

She shrugs again, nonplussed, “Yeah. Why? You thinking about it?”

“Maybe,” he’s never been the decisive type, he bites at his upper lip uncertainly. He looks like dad when he makes that face, “Ma’s been on my ass ‘bout it.”

“You sit around all day, I don’t blame her.”

“I don’t sit around all day. I got a job.”

“Doin’ what?”

“Burger place. Darius hooked me up.”

Her hands slow - carefully, she continues folding the pair of jeans in her hands, looking up to meet his eyes, “Darius? You been hanging out with Darius?”

“Not really. Andre and Steph lemme come around though,” He leans against her doorway. Masika knows her brother well - he’s a little more introverted than her and Kurt, she can’t imagine him around someone as loud as Andre. But she doesn’t say that, she’s not the older sibling here, even if she may feel as though she is sometimes, “They cool.”

“You like the job?”

“Nah, not really.”

“Mmm,” Masika nods, folds another shirt onto the bed - she’s planning to move the pile into the dresser soon, “You should start lookin’ online. If you wait around for somethin’ to happen, you’re gonna end up like Gran.”

“Y’say that all the time.”

“Because it’s true.”

“Yeah, yeah,” He’s already waving her off, leaving her bedroom to go and search what he came for in the first place. Masika exhales, pushes curly hair from her forehead - her room had always been the most stuffy, the heat blowing at full wasn’t helping any. Sometimes, she doesn’t understand Sam. No initiative, no motivation, she doesn’t know where it came from. There’s only so much she can do or say, he seems like the type that would be comfortable where he is now for the rest of his life.

She supposes nothing is wrong with that. At least, for him. Sometimes, she has a hard time believing they’re brother and sister.

Masika does a slow once over of her old bedroom - it still looks the same. Purple wallpaper with butterflies, matching dresser and tan carpet. A few posters and awards here and there. Mostly for academics. And then she spots her graduation picture on the far wall - her smiling face, Andre next to her, along with his ex-girlfriend and her classmate Dondria. Seems like a long time ago now.

By the time she leaves her room, the sun is already setting. She’d hoped to be out of the house much sooner, at least before her father got home. When she enters the kitchen, the first person she spots is her mother finishing up her homemade casserole, Uncle Eli was sitting at the table, a piece of half-eaten garlic bread in front of him. Masika passes by the couch in the living room, Sam is sitting there with his headphones in his ears, laptop in front of him ( Masika doesn’t know how that thing still manages to run ).

“You’re finished? Already?” Her mother asks when she gets close enough. Masika tries to reach over and swipe some food, it results in a swift pop to the back of her hand, “You better not have left any clothes laying around.”

“I didn’t,” Masika grouses, rubs at her finger.

“Good,” She looks back towards Elijah, “Are you going to stay for dinner?”

He shrugs, exchanging a look with his niece, “I should start headin’ back. Got lots of paperwork to finish.”

“You’re always workin’. Stay and eat. What would Mama say?” He looks close to rolling his eyes, and Tatiana glances at Masika, “Go and wash up for dinner. Your dad will be home in a minute.”

Masika’s shoulders tense up, “Actually...I was gonna go eat somewhere else.”

“Oh, yeah? Where?” Her mother’s thin eyebrows have picked up high on her forehead.

Masika avoids her eyes, “Darius’.”

“Ohhhh,” Obviously, Sam’s earplugs must’ve not been very high, he pulls one from his ear, grinning in their direction, “You still tryin’ to get with Darius? Outta your league, sis.”

“More like the other way around,” Her mother mutters, to which Elijah shrugs at, “That boy still at his mama’s house.”

“So is Sam,” Masika points out, irritated, “You don’t nag at him.”

“Sam is a child.”

“He’s older than me!”

Speaking of her brother, he’s entered the kitchen now, carefully balancing his laptop with one hand. Hopefully, it doesn’t fall - Masika doubts their parents will buy another one, “You liiiiike Darius. You like Dariiiuus. You wanna kiiiiiss him, you wanna fuuuuck him--”

“Samuel!”

“My bad, ma’.”

Masika swats at her brother’s shoulder, he skillfully dodges, “Shut up.”

“Good comeback, sis. You ain’t denyin’ it though.”

“I do not like Darius.”

“Good,” Elijah grunts from the table, “You could do better.”

Before Masika can protest, her mother is already speaking up, “What happened to that cute boy from your school? What was his name - Tyler?”

Masika’s nose wrinkles up, immediately she shakes her head, “He didn’t like my music.”

“Means he’s got good tastes,” Masika tries to hit her brother again, he sticks garlic bread into his mouth and flees back to the living room, “You missed!”

“Don’t you think you’re a little too concerned with that, Masika? It’s a pattern here, baby. First, Jermaine, then Gregory, Len, now Tyler--”

“Which one is Jermaine?” Elijah has looked up from his watch, which he’d been checking randomly, “Did you bring him home?”

“I never bring any of them home. You know why? ‘Cause they’re--” She catches the look her mother gives her, “‘cause they’re jerks.”

“You gotta put all your attention on a man. If you don’t, you ain’t gonna keep one.”

“Tati, don’t tell her no bullshit like that--”

“It ain’t! It’s the truth. Put yourself out there, sweetheart. One-hundred percent. You putting music over finding a good man ain’t gonna do any good for you...”

By then, Masika has already tuned them out. She nods subconsciously along with her mother’s words, it’s turned into ( “blah blah blah blah blah and another thing, blah blah” ) before Masika finally speaks up again, “Ma’, I’m gonna be late.”

“Fine, fine. You’re missin’ out though. Be back by ten.”

“Sure.” Maybe even later, if it meant not seeing her father’s face. She’d prefer to avoid him at all costs. There’s a chilling breeze when she makes it outside, Masika shrugs on her thick jacket, down the stairs of the porch and walking past Uncle Eli’s old car. Each stone on the sidewalk is different - some chipped at the ends, some with graffiti, some with chalk drawings, a line of them with a faded hopscotch board, Masika half-assed does it, nearly trips on the last one.

“Masika! Sweetie, is that you?”

It’s a familiar voice, Masika turns her head in its direction, lighting up when she sees Old Miss Patricia sitting on her porch, rocking back and forth on her old chair. Masika walks over, lingers by the steps, the elder woman watches her, bright brown eyes and all. Even with her husband passing away a few years ago, she still manages a smile.

“Hey, Mrs. G,” Masika stops on the second porch step, “You doin’ alright?”

The woman nods, she’s smiling down at her, “Mhmm. Diabetes messin’ up a little, but I’m good. Real good. Better seein’ you, baby. How’re you?”

“I’m great,” she replies, “Can’t complain, you know?”

“You gotten so big...” She’s staring at her, a fond look in her eyes, “I just saw Sam the other day, I remember when he was this big,” She makes a vague gesture with her thin hand, a few inches from the ground, “And that - that boy that used to come around here...”

“Andre?”

“No, no...that boy - that boy needs to learn some manners, Andre,” She shakes her head, “Always walkin’ around with a new girl, every time I see him.”

“You gotta stop spying out your window, Mrs. G. It’ll just make you angry.”

“Mmm...but - that boy. That used to come around here. Devin...DeQuan...”

“Darius?”

“Yes! HIm. I saw him and we were talking. Such a sweet boy. He’s gotten so big too. I told him - he needs to do somethin’ about that hair. I never seen a boy with so much hair...”

“Yeah,” Masika’s smiling, looking down to her shoes and then back to Mrs. G, “You’re taking care of yourself, right? I’m here for a couple weeks, I can come around and help you clean the house.”

“I’m fine, baby. Thank you. Your mama comes over here all the time. She’s trying to make me fat.”

With how much weight she has lost, Masika doesn’t blame her. But still, she keeps her smile. They only talk for a few moments longer, Masika makes a mental note to stop by again and help how she could, whether Mrs. G wanted it or not, “Mrs. G, don’t stay out here all night, okay? It’s gonna get cold.”

The elder woman only waves her off. So, Masika will be sure to check on her when she’s heading home later. Darius’ house is a few blocks away - farther than it was before since her parents had recently moved into a house with better plumbing. On her way there, she spots a police car slowly making its way down the street, graffiti on the wall of an old store, a group of men lingering outside of a liquor place.

As much as she’d missed home, it’s a little easy not to miss it as well.

A knock on the door, she hears muffled voices from inside - probably the television. Mrs. Jordan looks as pretty as ever when she answers the door. Pretty, but still very tired. The bags under her eyes never seem to disappear, no matter how many years pass.

“Masika?” Her expression lifts, she looks surprised and then beyond happy. She opens the door quickly, taking Masika into an almost too-tight hug, “Hey, baby girl! You look - I mean...” She holds Masika at arms’ length to get a better look at her, “How long it’s been, hm?”

“Few months,” Masika is practically beaming - Mrs. Jordan was definitely like a second mother to her, there was no denying that, “How’re you?”

“Good, I’m doing good. Still got a full house,” she drops her hands, looks at Masika in slight awe before she twists her mouth lightly to the side, “Y’know, you always show up at the most terrible times, girl. I got called into work, late shift. But we need to catch up.”

“My mom is having Sunday dinner this weekend. If you wanna come--”

“Of course. I’ll be there. I’ll bring the boys--Oh! Hurry up and come inside before it gets cold,” She pulls Masika inside of the house, and Masika quickly disposes of her shoes and jacket. The smell is homey, brings back old memories of crayons and running until you’re out of breath and cooking late at night, “Had to drop the boys off at my mother’s for the weekend, peace and quiet. Finally.”

Masika steps further into the room, spots someone moving out of the kitchen.

Mrs. Jordan puts her hands on her hips, “Darius! Come and say hi, boy.”

Darius looks the same, just like the last time she’d seen him. A couple times, she’d came to see him out of worry, after the funeral. Masika shifts in spot, looks at him expectantly. He doesn’t disappoint, as soon as he sees her, this cheesy grin comes to her face - a familiar smile, a bittersweet smile - and he’s stepping forward to hug her tight, rocking them both side to side.

“’Ey, Miss College.”

“Oh, ha-ha,” When he pulls away slightly, Masika grips his shoulders, looking him up and down, “You getting taller?”

“Nah, nah,” he looks close to laughing and he does - he’s gained some of his weight back, she can tell, “Your brother like a pole, though.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe you gettin’ shorter.”

“Yeah? I’m gettin’ shorter.”

“Your hair’s all big - tryin’ to create an illusion and everythin’.”

“Boy--”

“Look at you two, hm?” Mrs. Jordan hasn’t left yet, she’s standing off to the side, watching them, “Remember when you guys used to build forts all over the room with the covers and--”

“Maaaaaa’,” Darius lightly complains, leaning his head back and looking at the ceiling.

“I’m just sayin’! You two are so cute--Lemme get my camera real quick--”

“You gonna be late,” Darius tells her, almost laughing, “Ma’, c’mon.”

“Okay, okay,” His mother is already grabbing her purse and jacket. She gives both Masika and Darius kisses to the cheek, “I’ll be back later, okay? Love you.”

“Love you, too, ma’.” Darius watches her leave, closes the door after her. Masika begins to look around - things are still the same. A laundry basket in the corner, the same couch, TV in front of it, shoes almost everywhere. His mother still keeps things as clean as possible, even with four boys. It’s kind of amazing, “How long you in town for?”

Masika turns to face him, he’s making his way slowly over to her side, hands deep in his pockets. She shrugs a shoulder, “Mom wants me to stay a couple weeks. Might not.”

Darius eyes her for a few seconds, “'Cause your pops?”

“Yeah.” It’s nothing new - her dad wasn’t her favorite person in the world. She places her bag on the end of the couch, glancing towards a particularly photo on the wall - it’s of Darius, maybe around seven or eight, standing over a birthday cake, his mother looks younger in the photo. Younger, but still very tired, “You...doing okay?”

Their eyes meet, Darius stares at her. Then snorts some, thumbs at the corner of his mouth, “You ain’t--” A pause, “You ain’t gotta ask me that.” She remains silent, licks at her lips, “You ain’t gotta treat me like - y’know.”

“I know,” She tells him, her voice has quieted, “Sorry I haven’t been around.”

“It’s cool. Y’busy, Masika,” he moves past her, and she turns around to follow his every movement. He sits onto the couch, putting a notebook on the end table beside him.

“What if I say I’m not too busy for you?” She’s teasing, coming to his right to sit next to him. The couch dips slightly under her weight - the springs are so old.

He looks at her again, amused, “Yeah, you funny. Got jokes.”

She gets comfortable beside him, leaning the side of her head into her palm, “Mrs. G was talkin’ about you today.”

“Yeah, I be goin’ over there to help with her yard. She always outside. Her daughter was there the other day--”

“Diamond?”

He nods, “Talking about moving her into a home.”

Masika frowns, leans forward slightly, “Really?”

“Yeah, sucks.” He’s quiet for a moment, “You gone by Andre’s?”

Masika almost rolls her eyes, “Why? Has he done something?”

“Messin’ around with Lexi, from down the street.”

“Alexis Mitchell? The one with--”

“Yeah, yeah, her. Sayin’ she pregnant and shit. Andre been duckin’ and dodgin’ at different people’s house. Watch out for him.” Darius looks as if he’s about to laugh, the white of his teeth is stark against his skin.

“First of all, she’s tripping. You know how many times Lex has said she’s pregnant? Please. Why is Andre even with her? Wasn’t his friend with her a few months ago?”

“Jared? Yeah. I don’t get mixed up in all of it. Andre stay wilding out, man.” They talk for a little while longer, darting from subject to subject, no limits to what could and couldn’t be spoken over. Masika crosses her legs underneath her, leaning closer to try and grab the notebook on the other side of him. He catches her upper body before she can, one hand on her shoulder and the other on her sternum, “No touchin’.”

“I won’t touch it if you show me,” Masika tells him, feigning innocence when he gives her a look, “C’moooooon, you’ve had that for years. Lemme see!”

“You nosy,” he says, but he doesn’t seem annoyed by it, “Personal shit in there.”

“Mhmmm,” she manages to get a hold of it, twists her body away when he tries to half-hearted snatch it from her grip. Masika opens the notebook - the pages are frayed at the ends, old and worn, some had dog-ear bookmark on the corners, some words crossed out and replaced, entire pages filled with scribbled writing over and over again. She has to keep leaning away from Darius, he tries to round her side and take it from her again, but she’s quicker.

It takes a few minutes, she manages to skim through the majority of it. Some words stand out, she’s whispering quietly to herself as she reads.

“Darius...this is--”

“It ain’t nothin’--”

“--so good!” She turns to him in one energetic movement, he has to move back to avoid getting hit with her hair, “You wrote all these, right? Are they songs--” She inhales sharply, “Poems? Oh, my god, why didn’t you ever show me this?”

“Ain’t a big deal, come on,” he tries to take it again, she holds it away quickly. He shifts underneath her look, almost looks nervous, “It’s not like - it’s worth showin’ or some shit.”

“That’s what you think?” She stares up at him, brown eyes bright, “It’s worth seeing. And more than that, you should publish stuff like this.”

He smiles some, turns his face away so she can’t see it fully, “Stop messin’ around. Niggas don’t do shit like that.”

“They don’t do shit like that because they don’t use their heads, Darius. You do. Take advantage,” He still looks unsure, hands are back in his pockets, he’s not trying to take it from her anymore, “I don’t blame you for writing, you know. With everything that’s happened, makes things more easier.”

He looks towards her again, and she stands from the couch, right in front of him, holding out the notebook to him. Darius takes it, pressing his lips together briefly, keeps his head ducked but meets her eyes.

“When I started writing, my dad kept throwing out all my notebooks. Even if I hid them,” she says quietly, “and whenever I went out and bought more, he’d take out his belt and yell. Said singing should only be in the church...Point is, I didn’t need him to believe in me or nothin’. I did it myself.”

Darius smiles again, looks a bit bashful and amused, “Yeah? Y’takin’ public speaking at that school too?”

“What would you know about public speaking?”

“Know it’s a class.”

She watches him, seems to be thinking for a few seconds before she suddenly lights up, “Come to my Spoken Word show tomorrow night. It’s for the November Poetry Slam. Downtown.”

He’s almost immediate with his response, “What time? I’ll come--”

“And perform?”

“Masika--”

“Please, please, pleeeeeease, it’ll be so much fun, Darius! You’ll love it!”

He shakes his head while she speaks, “Not my thing. I wanna watch you though, you fly with it.”

“Pleeeease, c’mon. You can’t say no. You can’t say no or I’ll get mad--”

“Mad?”

“Yeah!” He’s trying to hold her away when she pulls teasingly on one of his braids, gripping her thin wrists in his hands, and she’s smiling, stumbling towards him clumsily, almost bumping chests. The difference in height is apparent, she has to tilt her head up to look at him, and he’s smiling too - face close to hers. Her smile falls once she notices the proximity, “Yeah...I’ll get...mad...”

Her words are trailed off, really quiet.

He’s staring at her, the smile has fallen, “...missed havin’ you around.”

“Really?”

“Yeah,” A pause, “Weird - I mean, you not bein’ here. It’s weird.”

“Sorry.”

“You ain’t gotta apologize, Masi--”

The door opens, sound of boots hitting the floor, Andre stops when he sees them, eyebrows high on his head. It takes a moment, but Masika gets the look - jerking backwards when she notices how close she is to Darius. Darius, on the other hand, looks annoyed, jams his hands into his jean pockets.

“Y’don’t know how to knock, nigga? Y’hands broke?”

“Nah,” Andre is grinning, making his way over to him, “You know what kinda neighborhood this is, don’t leave y’door unlocked.” And then his eyes are back on her, “What’s up, ‘Sika? When you get back?”

“This mornin’,” She crosses her arms over her chest, fixing him with a look, “And I heard about Lexi.”

Immediately, his smile is gone, he throws an accusatory glance at Darius, “Why you goin’ and telling everybody for?”

“It ain’t everybody. It’s Masika,” Darius sits back onto the couch, leaning back, placing his notebook back where it belongs.

“Man, that hoe ain’t shit. She been chasin’ me around, saying she pregnant for weeks now. Ain’t no baby, ain’t no stomach,” Andre argues, annoyed.

“Some women don’t start showing until at least three to five months,” Masika tells him offhandedly, “Why’re you even messing with her like that? I thought you and Drea were working it out.”

“Fuck her, too. She’s crazy - callin’ my mama’s house and hanging up all the time. She’s bugging.” Then he shrugs, “Females be all over me once they get a taste, you already know--”

“Man, shut y’corny ass up.” Darius says from the couch.

“Fuck you,” He flips him off, “Just mad ‘cause you ain’t pullin’ any. Ain’t like Miss Christian College over here offerin’ anything.” He gestures towards Masika lazily.

Before she can say anything, Darius lobs a couch pillow at him, hitting Andre square in the head, “Fuck you. Don’t talk ‘bout her like that.” It reminds her of when they were kids - Darius more of the leader in their group, Andre always joking around and playing subtle pranks until he got in trouble, Masika following both of them blindly ( the youngest of the group ).

“Alright, alright. Chill, damn,” Andre catches the pillow, grumbling under his breath. He looks towards Masika again, “You kickin’ it tonight?”

“No, gotta head home soon. Eat dinner.”

“You talkin’ to your dad?” Andre asks, curious.

“No,” Masika and Darius answer at the same time, she continues speaking, “But I can’t keep avoiding him.” As she talks, she grabs her bag from the couch, glancing at Darius, “Tomorrow night, eight.”

“Yeah, I got it, I’ll be there.”

“And you will perform--”

“Nah.”

“Darius.”

“Masika.” He uses the same tone as her, grinning briefly when she shoots him an irritated look, “I’ll be there. I ain’t seen you sing in awhile.”

She blows out air, rolls her eyes, “Fine. Bring your notebook.” Masika moves past Andre, he’s curiously watching their exchange, he follows after her, watching as she slips on her shoes, “What?”

“Spot me a twenty.”

“What - no. Ask Darius to give you some cash.”

“I already said no,” Darius says from the front room, Andre glares back in his direction, “Man, take y’begging ass home.”

“And take care of Alexis, if word gets to your mom, you’re going to be in trouble.” Masika says to him, narrowing her eyes at his surprised look, “I’ll tell her myself.”

“Don’t! Don’t, okay? I’ll handle it.”

“Good,” She leans around him, calling out briefly, “Darius, see you tomorrow.” She hears his reply, muffled - he probably went to the kitchen or bathroom, and she leaves Andre there in the doorway.

Masika rolls over in bed when she hears steps heading in the direction of her room, pulls the covers up to nearly cover her head. Like she expects, the door opens - she can see the familiar shadow cast across the length of the wall.

“...Masika?”

It’s her father’s voice. She hadn’t gotten the chance to see him, purposely roamed outside just so she wouldn’t make it back in time for dinner. Everyone was already in bed by time she’d arrived.

“Are you awake?”

She curls up tighter, forcibly closes her eyes. It’s silence for a few seconds. And then the door closes. Masika listens as his steps get further and further away.

“Waiting for someone?”

Masika looks up at the voice, spots Craig standing there, pulling out his earphones when he gets close enough to her. She gives a half-hearted smile, toys with the cross-necklace around her neck, “Uh, yeah. I am.”

“A...guy, maybe?” He shifts closer, settles along the wall.

Masika continues to look at the door, more people file in - but not who she was looking for, “Yeah. Best friend.”

“Best friend? The one you talked about before.”

“Yeah.”

“Darius, right?”

“Yeah.”

“You sure he’s comin’?”

She looks up at this, away from the door. Frowning lightly up at him, she says, “Yes. He is. He always comes.” Craig backs off slightly at her tone, both of them only looking up when Masika hears a call of her name, “Frankie, you made it.”

“Of course I did, girl,” She hugs Masika, lightly bumping Craig out of the way in the process. In her ear, she whispers, “Is he bothering you again?”

“Nope,” Masika’s voice is just as quiet as hers, only raising in volume when Frankie pulls away, “You auditioning for a nineties movie?” She tilts her head, motioning to Frankie’s long braids.

“Look, not everyone can have curly white girl hair like you,” Frankie tells her, “Plus, work been killin’ my ass.”

“I’ll get my mom to do your hair.”

“With her heavy hand? Hell no, girl.��

Craig leans over in their conversation more, “’Sika, you gotta be up in a second. Think they’re about to close the doors.”

She blinks, looks up, “Wait. No. Do not close the doors yet. Fifteen more minutes.” Craig looks incredulous, but he doesn’t have time to argue with her, she’s already pulling Frankie towards the stage with her - fluffing out her own hair and fixing her shirt, “Darius isn’t here yet.”

“Which one? The Jordan’s? Jesus, how many kids she got?” Frankie mumbles, helping Masika with her hair, “Too many.”

“Four boys,” Masika proclaims, “I don’t think there’s such a thing as too many.”

“Yeah, says the girl that wants like fifty kids. You gonna live in a shoe, bitch? Psh, puh-lease,” She finishes quickly, glances at the curtains, and then back to Masika. The crowd has already formed - Masika can smell the smoke, the coffee, leather from the old seats, soft music playing, “Ready?”

“Make sure they don’t close the doors, okay?” Masika begs, “Not yet.”

“Masika, you know they close ‘em at nine.”

“Please. Pretty please, Francesca.”

Frankie makes a face, “Never say my full name again and we got a deal.”

“Thanks a bunch,” Masika kisses her cheek before she gets on stage, before people get too bored with Craig’s long list of dad jokes he seems to have ( even though he’s twenty one and doesn’t have any kids ). Even in the short amount of time she has back in her home town, she still managed to get booked for the opening act for the show.

Her mother could not make it. Sam wasn’t interested. Kurt was out of the country. Elijah was working. Her father - well, everyone knows how that conversation would’ve went. But even so - she still sings to her heart’s content, there isn’t much that can stop her. She’d learned that a long time ago.

Most of the time, when she does sing, her eyes are closed. Towards the bridge of the song, she opens them - and she finds Darius there, towards the back of the club, along the wall and away from the crowd. He makes this half-shrug at her as a hello.

Masika smiles through the rest of her song.

“You. Were. Late.”

She punctuates every one of her words with pokes to his arm. Darius grins, facing her. The club is relatively empty by now, besides Craig speaking to the supervisor. Frankie had left earlier - right in the middle of the poetry portion of the show. She’d mostly come to hear Masika sing and for support, so she wasn’t bothered by it.

“Yeah. Got held up at work. My bad.”

“I’m kidding,” Masika breathes, “It’s fine. Really. I’m just glad you came. You know how weird it is performing on campus and you’re not there? It’s like I’m missing something.”

“You did good,” He pauses, looks down at the table they’re occupying, “...missed hearin’ you sing.”

A smile blooms across her face slowly, “Really?”

“Yeah, ‘course. It’s like what you said - somethin’ missing, you know?” She does know. Watches him, one elbow on the table, hand balancing her head. When he notices her staring, he looks at her again, “Wha’cha lookin’ at?”

“You. Waiting.”

“For?”

She nudges her head towards the empty stage, giving a smile when he immediately begin to shake his head, “Please, Darius. I would die happy.”

“Why you pressin’ me about this?”

“‘Cause you’re good. So good. And I know that from just lookin’ through your notebook for two seconds,” When he makes a light scoffing noise, she leans closer, “Just - try it. I promise it’ll feel much better coming out. It’s one thing to write it; another thing to say it out loud.”

“That’s why I write it. So I don’t gotta say it.”

“Darius,” She’s staring at him again, expression soft and open, “...for me?” Darius visibly hesitates, picks at the napkin in front of him; steadily tearing it into little pieces throughout the conversation. He looks around - as if he’s looking for anyone he knows, anyone that might say something to him or stare for too long.

It takes awhile. Maybe six minutes of coaxing, he doesn’t go to the stage, but it’s a step in the right direction. He clears his throat, picks at the napkin scraps more, “Can it be somethin’ - old or whatever? Wrote it a long time ago.”

“Yeah,” she nods fast, continuing to watch him, “Whatever you want.”

He looks at her again, as if searching for something, so she reaches over and touches the back of his hand with her fingers, soon clasping their hands together. It’s a slow process, he can’t really look at her - she can tell - and he stares at the wall across the room, then drops his eyes to their hands.

Inhales. And finally, his mouth opens.

#masika #writings

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samtheflamingomain · 7 years

Text

ramblings of a drunkard

I guess it's time for me to do more writing, since it seems I run in cycles lately: I get so morbidly depressed that I can't get out of bed, I lament writing, I finally write, then I get a few weeks of relative stability. Seeing as how I'm at the end of that stability, spent two days in bed and dreading opening up Notepad, I suppose it's time.

This time it's harder, because I don't know what to say. I feel like I covered everything that happened in the past few months in my last post. There's a similar theme in my therapy sessions. I just had one last night and I didn't know what to talk about despite there being so much to talk about. And now I don't know what to write about.

I've never been at a loss for something to whine about Before (I was kicked out) because I was still being abused by my parents. Emotionally and financially. Now that I've cut all ties to them, I should be happy. But I'm not.

My therapist says I'm grieving. But I don't know how that could be possible. I've spent my whole life wishing my parents would get divorced, wishing they would get kidnapped, even wishing that, when my mother was in a car accident, that she would die from it. And I always hated myself for it.

I guess I'm grieving something more complicated: The idea of good parents. The fact that I spent 22 years truly believing I was a bad person to my core. The fact that I finally got what I wanted but not early enough to fix me.

I guess I should address my alcoholism, since it’s what comes up for me every single day.

It's been almost three months to the day since I left, and of those roughly ninety days I've spent maybe ten of them sober. I've put over $500 of liquor on my credit card. I never used to understand why I drank, why I smoked weed, why I knew that, if offered, I absolutely would've done harder drugs.

When I was in the hospital I got to know a drug addict who'd done every substance you could name. He was, like me, a smart guy. Now, he claims to have had a good childhood, so I know my "reasons" for my addictions are different than his, but he struck a chord with me when he said, "I never thought about it as a mental health issue. I thought I just did it to have fun."

I always felt the same. I remember when we got an anti-drug propaganda book in middle school, detailing all the horrible things each kind of drug did to you. But there were also descriptions of how each drug was great. And I thought to myself, "I can't wait to try all these." Because they sounded like fun - as long as you don't get addicted. And like every teenager on the planet, I thought "that would never be me."

As the book warned, it comes on slowly. It started, for me, in France, where they drink like fish at every evening meal. I remember fondly the buzz I'd get from half a glass of wine. When I got back to Canada, I spent six months desperately looking for someone to buy me alcohol and cigarettes.

I eventually did, around my 18th birthday. The people I met who were legal were also heavily into weed. I was never big on the idea of weed because my parents were joint chain-smokers and had been since my birth. They drove high. They did everything high. I never got to know who they were because they spent their entire lives high.

But I tried it. I don't know why I kept doing it, though, because the first fifty times I smoked I would have anxiety attacks and horrible thoughts and imagery of torture run through my mind. I guess it was one part "everyone else is doing it" and another part "everyone else is enjoying it; there must be something I'm missing."

This was the period of my life where, when asked, I'd say I preferred getting drunk over getting stoned.

But by the time I was 19, that had reversed. It wasn't really a matter of my weed experiences getting less anxiety-driven, but more of a growing distaste for alcohol, pun intended.

Ever since the first night I got drunk with my legal friends, I had no concept of "drinking responsibly", "pacing yourself" or "knowing when to quit". This resulted in many embarrassments, terrible hangovers, and a few cases of mild alcohol poisoning.

I know the reason why I was so reckless: I didn't care what happened to me. Most of the health-related results of alcoholism come later in life, and I never saw myself making it to “later in life”, in every sense of the phrase.

I eventually ran out of money to keep drinking myself sick and switched back to weed, which was always readily available and free, as my parents grow their own. One terrible day, I decided to try a popper. Just one, to see what it was like. One turned into thousands.

I was addicted to poppers for 3 years and change. For a while they were just an indulgence. Then they were a crutch, and then a necessity. I promised myself almost every day that I'd quit when I ran out of cigarettes. Then I'd just steal cigarettes from my mom. Then I'd get sick of that and buy another pack. Rinse and repeat.

It had started getting really bad around my 22nd birthday, when I started having terrible chest pains and coughing up black phlegm every hour. But I still couldn't quit.

I had my last popper the day I was kicked out and haven't had access to weed since. It's the longest I've gone without weed since I graduated high school. Unfortunately, like my many (ex) friends who were addicted to poppers, I quickly and firmly replaced them with alcohol.

Now I know I'll never smoke weed again because going back after this long would likely result in a horrible anxiety attack. In fact, all my plans of trying all the drugs are cancelled because of my newly-heightened anxiety.

But you know what doesn't increase anxiety? Alcohol!

I don't want to kill myself anymore, so drinking is now a bit of a tricky thing for me. See, before, I didn't care if I drank myself into a coma and never woke up, and that reflected in the fact that I could drink a 26er in about 4 hours without worrying about my safety. Because I didn't care about my safety. Now that I do, I try to control myself, but old habits die hard, and I just know that I can't, as reflected by the fact that I'll still drink a 26er in 4 hours but all the while worrying I won't wake up.

I tried rationing; doing shots instead of drinking from the bottle, doing cocktails instead of shots, and most recently, drinking beer instead of liquor. My only problem with that is that it's more expensive, tastes disgusting, and gives me terrible hangovers. (Yes, for some reason I don't get them as bad when pounding back 5 shots an hour, god knows why).

I'm at the point where 12 beers over 5 hours barely gives me a buzz. I lay in bed in agony for at least 3 hours every morning. And then by 4pm I go get more and do it all again, watching my credit get worse and worse by the day.

Part of me understands why; as my therapist says, I'm grieving. Lots of people drink after a loss. But another part of me doesn't understand why I've always needed something to get through the day. I long for the days before I was introduced to weed and alcohol and Tylenol 1's. I don't get why, now that I'm out of an abusive house, I still seek ways to alter my consciousness.

There were times when I was away from them: the 2013-14 school year and the 2014-15 school year. The first I was in a dorm - very lonely, but I was in a relationship. Once I was dumped, my substance use skyrocketted, and it never really went back down. I've had periods where I didn't rely on weed and booze, but they were few and far between.

It was the summer between school years, back at home, that I really started to rely on weed. I excused it as the only thing keeping me from going insane working 12-hour shifts at Dominos for 4 months. I planned on quitting when I moved out again, and I did, for about a month. I found a weed dealer in Toronto (as if that's difficult) and any spare cash I had went towards it.

But spending money on weed was a deterrent. I went a few weeks at a time sober, then a month smoking. And in November, when I started doing poppers, I felt like I'd found the thing that would carry me through my depression until I "got better". I thought I'd be able to stop whenever I found something to make me truly happy.

But that's the thing about my life: I've never been truly happy. When I moved back “home” in May after a suicide attempt and a hospital stay, I had access to free weed again. From May 2015 to February 2017, the longest I went without a popper was a month. After another hospital stay. Then I broke and bought cigarettes. Then I broke and had a half a joint. Then a full joint. Then I bought another bong. Then a popper piece. And by the one-month mark, I was right back where I started.

I know wishing doesn’t do a damn thing but I wish I’d never discovered poppers because weed on its own is relatively harmless. Poppers are worse than cigarettes because you smoke them unfiltered and in one hit. Alcohol is probably just as bad if not worse, especially, in my case, on the wallet.

I wish I’d never gone to France. I wish I’d never gotten into a toxic group of drug addicts who, to this day, have made nothing of their lives and continue to drink and smoke their troubles away. But I guess I’m not much better.

I’d like to end on this note: we’re all addicts in some capacity. I’ve always believed this. From the day we’re born, there’s something we do to cope. Some are addicted to heroin, others are addicted to mindful thinking. My point is that some addictions are worse than others. I’m not a chemist or a doctor so I can’t be sure, but I think 6 beers 6 days a week is still better than 20 poppers a day 7 days a week.

Hopefully I can start whittling that down to no beers no days a week and replace it with something healthier, but as things are now, I don’t see a way out.

Stay Greater.

#alcoholism #addiction #mental illness #bipolar #sam

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