Chronic. Progressive. Fatal.

Chronic: Suggests long duration or frequent recurrence and is used especially of diseases or habits that resist all effort to eradicate them (chronic sinusitis).

I think when I start up my heavy metal band -- the one that's going to be cheered by tens of thousands at Wembley Stadium -- I'm going to call it The Chronic Progressive Fatal Quartet. If I'm going to make my living playing death metal I better let everyone know what's coming.

While I'm sipping coffee at a meeting, my disease is out in the parking lot doing push ups. One handed push ups, with a pile of bricks on its back, while suspended over a pit of Indian spitting vipers. My alcoholism keeps on coming. It's very macho. It can take a lot of punishment. It does not discourage easily.

It's not easy watching the end game. All active alcoholics take a tremendous emotional beating. We all know fear, what it's like to be irritable, restless, and discontented. Most of us take a lot of physical punishment: hangovers and cirrhosis and drug overdoses and the like. Some of us take it all the way. We just give up and let ourselves die. No one can help us.

Slow Motion Suicide. Which would also be a really cool band name.

Routine: A regular, more of less unvarying procedure, customary, prescribed, or habitual, as of business or daily life.

Luckily for me, I'm a routine guy by nature. In fact, capitalization would not be inappropriate in this case. Call me The Routine Guy. I have been known to floss in the jungle, take ice cold showers if the hot water is out, and eat a yogurt every day. Would it kill me to not floss today? It might. Under duress, I would consider using a different brand of floss or flossing right before bed instead of right after dinner or trying a different flossing technique, but I will, I must floss. Do not get between me and my floss.

Fortunately, I have been able to translate these almost dangerously compulsive habits into a strength of sorts. There are no stray pieces of spinach stuck between my back molars, for instance. This is a good thing, particularly if you have to look at me for any length of time, which many people consider unpleasant even when they don't have to ignore the occasional piece of vegetation. My nickname is Horseface, after all.

I'm totally off track this morning. See what the topic of flossing does to me? The only idea was to talk about how important it was for me to develop a healthy routine in my recovery program, and I picked up the thread of flossing, so to speak, and I was off and running.

This will all make sense tomorrow.

I Need More Stuff

Stuff: Worthless objects; refuse; junk.

My skepticism with The Promises is burning with a white hot heat today. I'm choking on the idea that I can be happy by dedicating my life to the happiness and well-being of others and by continuing to foster a deeper, more profound relationship with my concept of a Higher Power. It feels like I have a big chicken bone stuck in my craw. Not a little stuck, either, but wedged in there sideways and caught on my epiglottis. I'm horking and hacking and it's not going anywhere.

Surely I can be happy by pursuing my own wants. Things. That's the key. If I just keep accumulating more things then I will discover the meaning of life. I will break through and experience nirvana. You don't have to do all of that yoga crap or experiment with transcendental meditation to discover where happiness resides. It's stuff.

I can see that in our society that the happiest people have the best possessions. A good indicator of satisfaction is the size and cost of one's automobile. You are very happy if you have an expensive car. You will become more miserable with a small car and the pain will increase as the thing ages. If you take the bus, you might as well give up and resign yourself to a life of misery.

Get more stuff!

Laser Beams of Ire

OK, I've established the fact that I don't like anybody but I want them to love me. In my opinion I've made a compelling case, with airtight logic and a simplicity born of an almost otherworldly intelligence, common sense, and insight. The general population is highly flawed and patently offensive, justifying my distaste. Other than that, they're OK. They just need to make some improvements.

Unfortunately, the vigor with which I pursue my vendetta against my fellow man almost always slops over into my own personal space, which is where it becomes a real problem. It is, as I hope I have made clear, all about me. The emotional energy that I expend shooting laser beams of ire against mankind ends up bouncing off some kind of force field and hitting me right in the eye.

I can't dislike people. It isn't right and it isn't fair. Everybody is fine, doing the best they can to maneuver through the minefield that's life. Just because I manage to get through a couple of days without stumbling onto a buried explosive -- despite my best efforts to detonate every bomb within a hundred miles of my current location -- doesn't mean that I know what I'm doing.

Clearly, I don't know what I'm doing.

People! People Who Need People!

Like: To have a taste or fondness for; be pleased with; have a preference for; enjoy.


Generally speaking, I don't like other people. While this may sound like a character defect, it is important to note that when I was drinking I didn't like any people. I wasn't speaking generally at that point. I was speaking specifically. It actually made my interpersonal relationships pretty easy. You didn't have to wonder whether or not I liked you. I didn't even have to know you. I could work up a great distaste by the car that you drove or the restaurants that you frequented.


In one of the great ironies of life, it was very important that you liked me. I'm a people pleaser with a tremendous need to be loved who can't stand anyone. I wanted you to draw close and show your love so that I could work up a bad taste in my life and push you away. I would immediately seek out someone else that I didn't like and rip you a new pie hole behind your back. I saw no contradiction in this kind of behavior.

Today I'm proud to announce that I only dislike about 85% of the human race.

I'm Sorry. Really, I Am.

Apology: An acknowledging and expressing regret for a fault, injury, insult, etc.; asking a person's pardon.

I'm not real big on the whole apologizing thing. The main obstacle is that I don't think that I do anything wrong, which would preclude apologizing for anything that I have done, which by definition would not require that I admit fault. If you have been harmed in some way, well, so be it. It's unlikely that I'm the cause of that injury. You can't prove a thing. Sue me if you think you can win in a court of law. Then try to find me. Try to collect. Lots of people have, few with any success.

I have to admit that my least favorite step would be the one that asks that I make direct amends to people that I have harmed. Can't I send a proxy to apologize for anything that I might have done? Can't I assume that you'll get over it on your own? One of my favorite slogans is: "Maybe if I pull my drapes and turn off the phone, it'll go away."

I think that the main reason that I try to act well is that I hate making amends. I don't like admitting that I'm wrong, even when I am. I harbor a sneaking suspicion that you are the real cause of any problems that exist. And to add insult to injury, sometimes people don't accept my apology. That's a crime against humanity. Off to the Hague you go.

Good behavior doesn't have any inherent attraction for me.

An Elaborate Scam

Promise: An oral or written agreement to do or not to do something; vow.


I was very excited when I first heard about The Promises. If I was going to give up my long standing relationship with my true love -- alcohol -- and quit cheating with my hot mistress -- drugs -- I had high expectations of a pretty dramatic payoff. Promises to me meant that I was going to get what I had always wanted to get. I was looking for big houses and powerful jobs, willing sex partners, and exotic Italian sports cars. I graciously agreed to accept a German model if it was absolutely necessary.


I couldn't believe the crap that showed up in the book. I had to read the text a couple of times. My jaw dropped. I groaned. I even drooled a little bit. I paged forward, scanning the book for the real promises. No more drugs and alcohol, and the reckoning is a sense of purpose? Lack of self-interest? Relationships with God and my fellow man?

Holy shit, what a scam. These people must be the greatest salesmen in the world. They think they can get me to give up drinking just so God can start doing for me what I can't do for myself. I didn't need God to do anything except start delivering the goods.