From across the room the bottle of whiskey is staring me in the face, it becomes more than Jack. As it increases in symbolism it increases in size and before long, it's bigger than me, bigger than the bed, bigger than anything I'd like to confront - oh the irony that I would do so so regularly not long along ago.
I'm lost as I look up at the black and white wall that I couldn't bring myself to climb now even if I wanted to. Soon it's so large that in front of me is only white.
This is when I see beauty. The party that just a few glasses can induce: the glee, the confidence, the conversation that leads only to pleasure - whether it be the making of a new friend, the start of a relationship or simply a sexual encounter, more often than not.
As I glance down, though, I can see the black. Now, not only is it a social lubricant, it's a method of self-destruction, a wrecker of sanity. Is it only really a fantasy land visited on weekends, or was all that my facade?

They say you never really know someone until you've seen then drunk, which, upon occurrence, you'd expect to be an event that brought you closer together. However, the intoxication which leads to said sex then goes on to leave one with only loneliness, regret and solitude. Or in my experience, anyway.
Until now, that is.
I close my eyes, take a deep breath and release the air from my lungs. Well, that was easier than it has been before.