A sad lonely man, who used to drink a bit. No company in his apartment, not unless the TV and bottle of booze count as friends. No food, no sleep, no fresh air, no exercise. Emptiness, not feeling, not thinking, not even living. Slow suicide, painful degradation, deserved opprobrium. Dionysus or Bacchus ~ drunks by any other name can still stink of stale booze. That’s better than the smell of vomit, regurgitated whisky and bile, Chanel it’s not. All it takes is a perceived slight, another wrong word, another wrong turn, another disastrous depression.
I’ve been there, but not this time.