**The Day I Realized I Was Fucked**  

Yesterday morning, something happened that made me stop and think—well, *try* to think, anyway. My hands were shaking so bad I spilled coffee all over my fucking jeans, the ones I just bought at H&M for like $40. Not that it matters, but it was 7:15 AM, and I hadn’t slept. Again.  

Wait, no, let me backtrack. This isn’t just about spilled coffee. Shit, where do I even start?  

Okay, so in 2019—no, maybe 2018?—I was working at this call center in downtown Chicago, right? The one near that sketchy 7-Eleven where the cashier always looked like he wanted to murder someone. My ex, Sarah, used to say I was just "blowing off steam" when I’d come home after a shift and down three beers before even taking off my shoes. But then it became four. Then vodka. Then whatever the hell else I could find.  

I don’t know when it switched from "I’m just having fun" to "I can’t fucking stop." Like, one day I was just some dude who liked to party, and the next, I was hiding mini-bottles of Jack Daniel’s in my work bag. And before you ask—no, I wasn’t some tragic backstory guy. No dead parents, no abusive childhood. Just… life, I guess? Boredom? The crushing weight of realizing I was 29 and still answering phones for $17 an hour?  

Anyway, fast-forward to March 2022. I was living in this shitty studio apartment off Belmont, the kind with carpet that smelled like wet dog no matter how much Febreze you sprayed. My roommate, Dave—who was technically subletting the couch—caught me doing lines off the bathroom sink at like 3 AM on a Tuesday. He didn’t even yell. Just gave me that look, you know? The one that’s half pity, half disgust. "Dude," he said. That’s it. Just *dude*.  

But here’s the fucked-up part: I was *angry* at him. Like, how dare he judge me? Meanwhile, I’m the one who stole $60 from his wallet two weeks earlier to buy more coke.  

Ah, fuck. I’m jumping around too much. Let me try to make sense.  

The first time I *really* knew I had a problem was at my cousin’s wedding in Milwaukee. July 2021, I think? They had an open bar, and I blacked out before the damn salad course. Woke up in the hotel lobby wearing just one shoe. My aunt had to call me an Uber, and the driver kept side-eyeing me in the rearview mirror like I was gonna puke in his Prius. Which, fair.  

But here’s the thing—even after that, I convinced myself it was a one-off. "I’ll cut back," I told my mom when she called me crying the next day. And I meant it. For like, a week. Then my buddy Mike hit me up about some "good shit" he got, and… yeah.  

I’m not even sure why I’m writing this. Maybe because yesterday, when I spilled that coffee, I realized I couldn’t remember the last time my hands *weren’t* shaking. Or because last month, my boss pulled me into his office and said, "We’re worried about you, man." Not about my work—about *me*. And instead of feeling grateful, I spent the rest of the day pissed off, chain-smoking Marlboro Reds outside the office like some cliché.  

The weirdest part? Part of me *knows* this isn’t sustainable. But another part—the louder part—just doesn’t give a shit. Like, "Who cares if I’m a mess? At least I’m not bored."  

And then there’s Sarah. We broke up two years ago, but sometimes she still texts me. Just stuff like, "You alive?" or "Saw this meme and thought of you." I never know how to respond. Sorry? Thanks? "Hey, remember when you begged me to go to rehab and I called you dramatic?"  

Ugh. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll delete this later. Or maybe I’ll go buy a six-pack and forget I ever wrote it.  

The thing is, I *do* think about stopping. Like, a lot. But then I also think about how empty my apartment feels at 2 AM, and how the buzz in my head is the only thing that drowns out the voice asking, *What the fuck are you doing with your life?*  

And yeah, I know how pathetic that sounds.  

Anyway. The coffee stain on my jeans is dry now. Time to figure out what comes next. Or not. Whatever.