Dear Journal

As selfish as it may be, bear with me as I tell you a little bit about myself. I fear that I have become an alcoholic and a rather brutal viking philosopher. I am drinking my 5th rum and coke as I write, but I barely feel a thing. Apparently, the events I experienced in war have proven more potent than I originally prepared for. Actually, I believe I could never have prepared myself for them. Nevertheless, I am constantly dedicating myself, with great effort, to live in the present. The memories I have collected (that damnable combination of chemicals, compounds, and grey cell matter) are each and of themselves the worst nightmares I have ever had actually happen. I wake up to them and attempt to fall asleep with them every day. Yeah, it basically sucks. War, apparently, is the smartest of onions. Each day and week, event and tragedy, connected through a series of sights, sounds, smells, and reflections of the continuously deep. Dumber men than I, whom I wish at this point that I was more like, have much less problems than I do. The experiences of war are not for those caught up in critical self-reflection. I am depressed, seeking help, but functional.

Yesterday I returned from a trip to Las Vegas. Upon the crest of intoxication, which I rode rather successfully for a few hours, I met many intriguing people. Apparently, I have a knack for bring out the worst in people, especially while intoxicated. I met a prostitute at the bar while ordering drinks, who groped me while suggesting me take a shot with her (which, of course, I should buy). I met a lover, a bright woman, who fell in love with a football player on scholarship, who then dropped out of college, and married after nine years on the chase. I met a beautiful journalist, who recently graduated college looking for a good break, to whom I spilled more secrets than I should have given my security clearance. I met a make-up artist, who was sitting alone in the smoking section disgusted with the Las Vegas scene, and who was willing to share in the disgust with myself. I met (or rather, who literally ran into me on the steps) an overly intoxicated girl two weeks out of a six year relationship, accompanied by two valiant girlfriends, whom I guided to taxi to the best of my drunken ability. I was awarded with a kiss. To sober up, I went to a nearby cafe, when I was approached by a brother and sister in town for a stylists' convention. The brother was a homosexual, who originally approached me with hopes, tagging along his sister. The sister was far less caked-out than her brother and interested me far more. After an hour of conversation, the sister opened up to me enough to let me know that her brother had attempted suicide two weeks prior. The fresh scars on his wrists, cut vertically instead of horizontally, gave his desperate need for attention away far prior to her telling me this. She came to meet his aid in Las Vegas, and admitted to me that she was merely prolonging the inevitable. She came to tearing up quickly, and I was left to merely hugging her and kissing her on the cheek as she told me the full story. To sum it up, a shitty childhood met with a suicide of loved ones.

Over the course of six hours I met and learned these people. It was an amazing night. However, I am thoroughly ashamed of it. I feel guilty every time I am drunk, even though it was (since I forgot to bring my medication and was going through withdrawals) the only way I am aware of to keep myself sane while around my family. I hope I never and always have the same such nights in my future. Thanks for listening Abby.

With no and many regrets,

Benjamin