: One Year Later

December 19th, December 19th, December 19th. I get up from my bed, tired, angry, and incredibly hungover. Going to the club yesterday was not a good idea, and now Coach is gonna kick my ass in practice.

As I turn to my right, I find a blonde-haired woman in my bed, and by the looks of it, we had fun. Our clothes lay on the floor, ravaged and unwearable, my bed free of any blankets or pillows. It looks like an earthquake took place, but I know it was just me; I know I was the earthquake.

"Liam!" My roommate Jason calls for me, and I put on some trousers, finding my way downstairs. The woman in my bed will help herself out—Sarah, I think her name was. Or perhaps it was Sasha. I could care less.

"Look who's awake," Jason throws a football my way, and I duck it, just barely. I can see that he's already wearing his gear, and that means that we're late, really fucking late. "Man, Coach is gonna kill us. You look like hell, and it's already 9:00." I shrug because what else can I do? I have a problem, and there's really no way to stop it.

There's an insatiable hunger to self-destruct, to purposely put myself in shitty situations so that I can forget. So that I can feel something else, anything else, even if it's the anger clogging my veins. Even if it's a feeling of drowning with no way out. I would feel anything but that.

Perhaps it's sadistic to want to be in pain, but it's who I am now. No, it's who I've always been. Today will be another day that I drown myself in alcohol and women because I have no choice. I just want to feel something else, and I especially want to feel something else today.

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