“Drinking is a black hole. A black hole in your memory, a black hole in your life, and a black hole in your soul.” – Me, January 31, 2015 1:41 pm.

Almost a year ago, I was hungover in Seattle, Washington and I wrote that in my notes on my phone.

Today I lie in my bed hungover dreading going to work tonight and hardly keeping my eyes open. Not a day goes by that I don’t drink or consider drinking. America is a drunk nation and I am no exception.

So what’s the deal? What is the fucking deal? Something goes wrong or pisses me off, I drink. Something goes right and I accomplish great things, I drink. Oh, it’s a day today, I think I’ll fucking drink.

My body is young and able, let’s fucking drink. My parents are separated, let’s drink. I graduated college, let’s drink. He’s being an asshole, let’s drink. She’s being a bitch, let’s drink. I’m going to get my yoga teaching certificate,  let’s drink. It’s my birthday, let’s drink. I have a paper due tomorrow, let’s drink. I have a soccer game tomorrow, let’s drink. Depressed?, let’s drink. It’s my day off, let’s drink. I’m bored, let’s drink. A margarita sounds good, let’s drink. Shots, let’s drink. It’s Christmas, let’s drink. It’s Hanukah, let’s drink. It’s Tuesday, let’s drink. You’re beautiful, let’s drink. I love you, let’s drink.

Those are just a few of the endless reasons I’ll drink. Why do you drink?

Alcohol is the only thing that always has and always will be there. No matter what your parents do, no matter what your significant other does. No matter what your siblings do or where they go. No matter whether you have a job or a place to live or not. Whether you have children or not. Whether you’re scared or not. No matter what’s going on in Syria. In politics. In your home. In your life. No matter whether you’re happy or sad or succeeding or defeated. Whether you’re skinny or you’re fat. Whether you’re black or you’re white. Native American. You’re being a good person, a bad person. She does not discriminate. She’ll take you into her loving arms and she’ll take your memory too. She’ll take your emotions and your feelings. She’ll numb you and make everything okay. You don’t need your phone anymore. You don’t need anyone. You don’t need anything but more of her. She loves you. She loves you endlessly. She pleasures you. She wants more of you, too. She never wants you to put her down or give her up. It’s an old story that many have told. But it doesn’t get less important or less prominent. It’s always here, under your nose. She smells it on your breath. She makes you take your keys and put them in the ignition if no one else is there to take you home. She makes you blind. She turns the lights on when no one is home and she waits for you to wake up the next morning with questions only she can answer for. She clouds your eyes and your thoughts. She takes you down and she loves you for everything you are and more. She is mother’s milk. She is your lover. She is your friend. Your closest truest friend. She’s running over your tongue, down your throat, esophagus. She’s inside of you. In your stomach, your liver, your bladder. Your blood. Throughout your whole being. She changes you. She loves you.

She is a worm. She makes you a worm. She makes you weak. She makes you sick. She makes you sick of her and you want to get out. You want to get out of this relationship with her. She wants you more. She loves you harder. Your blood. She is your blood. She makes you drive. She makes you alive. She can kill you. She makes you say stupid shit. She makes a fool out of you. Everyone you know, knows. She makes you confident. She loves you so much she hurts you. She keeps hurting you and loving you and you keep going back for more because she cradles you and takes away everything that is wrong. She creates half of the problems. She puts you in the dirt and you crawl through it. Mud and dirt covers you and you can’t get clean. You kiss the earth. She’s a dirty girl. You crawl into a black hole with her and make love in the dirt.

Hot sweaty love in the dirt. She always adds one more presence to the party. No one can party without her. You just want her to leave. You want to scream at her. Get the fuck out of my head. Get out of my blood. Get out of my life. She won’t leave you. She’s always there. Always right there. Your life revolves around her. You serve her in mass quantities. You drink her in mass quantities. She tastes so good. “I’m the nectar of life,” she says. She’s everywhere. I want you forever. I’ll never leave you. I’ll never leave any of you. I love you, she says to me. And I know she means it. She means it when she says I love you. Forever, unconditionally, she loves you. Forever. When the world is over, she loves you. When all the trees have died, she loves you. All the rivers dried up, she loves you. Oceans contaminated, she loves you. Currency has no value, she loves you. In life, she loves you. In death, she loves you. Nuclear warfare, she loves you. Childless, she loves you. Hopeless, she loves you.


She loves you.


5 thoughts on “Worm

  1. I almost feel like writing anything would just cheapen the artistry and angst that your writing brings. I’ve always valued your ability to write about the most difficult subjects in your life and bring beauty to them. Never let the populace at large, and their dwindling emphasis and enthusiasm for the written word, dwindle or diminish your majesty. I love you always.


  2. I fully concur with Jasmine’s comment, which, by the way, is as beautifully written as your blog. I have always been attracted to the deeply philosophical, critical self-examining that is present in your writing, Tricia. You possess prodigious talent, especially for someone your age. Having said that, I do worry about you making a fatal mistake in regards to alcohol that could cost you your life and deprive the world of all you have to offer. I hope that this does not sound like preaching–that is not my intent or my style–I am simply articulating an honest concern. Given my own flaws, I would never presume to judge you or anyone else. I hope that you do not allow the worm to devour you from the inside out, as it has done to so many. I wish that Hannah (the young woman in the essay I shared with you) had your capacity for critical self-examination. Unlike most people I know, you have found your calling. You, my dear woman, are a writer and in that capacity you have my deepest respect. My love to you and Jasmine.

    Liked by 1 person

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