I get the sneaking feeling that it’s not going to happen. My hands still smell like vomit and as I rub my face, washing it with dry skin, the stench...of them makes me want to rinse them in bile again. I don’t, because I’m not that drunk, anymore. Sometimes I wonder if I put myself in positions that would disgust me, were I sober, on purpose. Everything has the hazy, undefined quality of a nightmare. You know what you need, what you have to do, but you just can’t do it. I want to cry. God, I. I told her that I would take a screwdriver. As she made the drinks, I sat down on the black couch that was in the living room. Soon Sasha came into the room with two screwdrivers. She gave me mine and sat down on the couch next to me with hers. Sasha turned on her TV and a basketball game came on. "Now what exactly is your favorite sport, again," I jokingly asked Sasha. She lauged and told me golf. I told her that she was in the wrong sport then. Once again she laughed. I took a healthy gulp of. More

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