I don’t think I should be happiest when I’m drunk. Chemical reactions create falsified joy but maybe I’d be happier if it was real. Prosecco in the bath was fun, Vodka on the floor was fun, Whiskey on the shower was fun, Third Eye Blind in bed was fun. This was ritual but every ritual and every fun time I had when I was 14 had to do with alcohol. Maybe I just wanted to be happy, but maybe I just wanted to not be sad. I drank more than I should’ve freshman year, but I had a blast with more weekends I don’t remember than ones I do. Why am I not mad about this? I should be outraged by myself, I’m falling apart, but I love doing it. Alcoholism is one of those things: it’s fun until it’s not and it’s great until it stops.