You don’t want me on your team. I can’t throw a punch or a ball. I can’t kick, scratch, slap. My hands are too clammy for a Chinese burn.
I run like I’m being attacked by bees. I dance like Missy Elliott covered in itching powder.
I’m a pacifist and I cry when I’m in pain. And polite? You betcha. Humble to the point of being craven. I’m writing this at five to nine on a Friday night. I’m DULL. I’m Wings playing in a deserted nightclub, Rothmans and a Diamond White. No class.
By some miracle I am 2 years sober. More than that. It’s been 818 days since I last had a drink or a smoke. That’s 19,632 hours I’ve spent with the stark regard of my own sobriety. It’s frightening. It’s like sitting in a room with mirrored walls closing in on you. Hi, I’m Daisy Pearce!
For realsies I’m not going to wang on about it. If you know about drink problems you’ll already know that cutting it out is the easy part. It’s living sober that is the killer. So much clarity! So MUCH FUCKING TIME.
It astounded me how much free time I had once I stopped being pissed up on booze or hungover off of booze. So much. I started ‘doing’ yoga. I have become so adept at contortion that my life should, by all rights, be one long sizzling dick-fest. So I ‘do’ yoga. I also ‘do’ meditation and I ‘do’ mindfulness. I walk, wank and write. Still I’ve got time on my hands. Fuck. Alcohol is the great eater of hours and now I’m tying knots in the days. Learn French? Non. Cook? Don’t mind if I don’t. Eat. I can caine a pound of halloumi in less time than it takes you to say, “Thats the second one you’ve had today.” I have a lovely round broad face thanks to my cheese love. A big round face like the moon rising over the edge of the cheeseboard. I love cheese.
So, I’m sober. This is what happens. Moon-faced and incoherent. Thanks a lot lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely, lovely booze.