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Quitter

Easy Does It. Let Go, Let God. Every Day Is a Gift (That's Why It's Called the Present). If it wasn't true, it wouldn't be a bumper sticker, would it?

Every addict and alcoholic knows, quitting is easy. He does it 50 times a day....

Quitter by Patrick Gregorson




It was cold and rain inside my mind that day. At one in the afternoon, I had been awake for a couple of hours, and I was already drunk. It seemed no amount of booze could cheer me up. Wasn’t this the time of the year to be merry? Shit, Christmas was two days away. What did I have to be glum about? Besides the fact that Jane left me.

Jane had left me before. When she said she was “tired of fucking a fucking drunk.” I called her a cunt. She hit me. I hit her back. We stayed away from each other for a few days. Until things, you know, cooled down. We eventually got back together. Unfortunately, she left me again last week. Things hadn’t cooled down this time.

We lived in a relatively small town, in Western Virginia, just near the boarder. No, I was not fucking my sister or cousin or anything like that. The problem with being a drunk in a relatively small town is that everybody knows what demons you carry on your shoulders. Others have the good fortune of being able to conceal it better. I couldn’t, and since everyone knew my demons, I carried them with pride. I’d walk into a liquor store first thing in the morning, and then walk out with my bottle, swilling it straight on my way back home. Yeah, I still live at home with my parents. I'm twenty-six, so what.  

By three in the afternoon, I was totally shit-faced. You know the kind of drunk where you can’t even walk to the bathroom without stumbling and almost falling over.

At four, I was dead set on winning back Jane. She was a bitch. But she was my bitch. So I prepared myself for the twenty-block walk to Jane’s house. I put on a jacket and stuffed a pint of whiskey in my pocket. I set out to fight the elements.

The evening was colder than I was expecting. But my pint of whiskey comforted me.

Eventually, I arrived at Jane’s house, well Jane’s parents’ house, and I saw the light in her room was on. I also saw her dad was home. Fucking faggot. I hated Jane’s Dad. He disapproved of me seeing his daughter in the first place. He had the balls to call me an alcoholic. I was a drunk, not an alcoholic. Alcoholics go to 12-step meetings. He’d been going to those meetings for fifteen years, a fact he never shut up about, sanctimonious prick. AA’s for quitters, and if that little quitter tried to stop me, I was going to kick his ass. I had at least fifty pounds and six inches on him.

I let myself in. Jane and her dad were eating dinner; it smelled good, fried chicken. I realized I hadn’t eaten in three days. They heard me come in. Jane’s dad asked who was there. I called for Jane. Jane’s pussy father told me I had better leave. I told him to mind his own fucking business. I heard him stand up and come at me. I swung on him. He ducked out of the way, and slammed my ass to the ground. He put his knee on the nape of my neck and held it there. He twisted my arm around and held it high and firm. I was drunk, but it still hurt. He said I was a good for nothing drunk who wouldn’t amount to anything. I didn’t have a job, so what? I could get a job. I just don’t want one, I told him. He reminded me that I was an alcoholic and I should go to a meeting. I reminded him that I could quit whenever I wanted to; I just didn’t want to. He told me to leave and never come back. If I ever tried doing anything like that again, he would call the cops.

I stood up after he let me go, and walked out of the house. Jane wouldn’t even look at me. My head was hanging lower than ever. On my way down the driveway, I heard Jane’s voice calling out the window. She said I needed to get help, you know, for my drinking. I told her I didn’t need her, or any fucking help. I was a man, and men don’t need anything from anybody.

Walking back to my parents’ house, I started thinking. I had been drunk for about five days and nights. Maybe I did have a problem. Maybe the reason I couldn’t get a job is because everybody in the goddamn town knows I’m a drunk. Turning up the block, I saw the liquor store. I decided to stop in. Fuck it. I could always stop tomorrow. 


Patrick Gregorson, is the emperor of Winchester, VA. He aquired the title by a ruthless over throw of local government officials. He is also, the only known person, who has, in fact, forgotten how to ride a bike.