My drinking was the least interesting part of me.
It consumed me for far longer than I would have liked.
How many people believe the cowardly myth
of the great genius alcoholic writer alone with a bottle,
their troubles, and a writing tool of choice, on those
long and lonely nights of drinking towards ecstasy?
The only creation was a dark void I kept feeding.
What was the point of those years? What did I learn?
I never want to be a great genius alcoholic writer.
It was killing me. I was never a genius to begin with
and I am certainly not one now.
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