Weekly Blog

     Well, hello there, my beloved readers! It's been a hot minute since my last digital chucking onto this blog, and frankly, the fact that I'm even capable of typing these words is a testament to either Divine Intervention or the sheer stubbornness of whatever soul I have within me. I'm leaning towards the former.

     You see, life has this funny way of reminding you that you're not quite the immortal, hard-partying long haired rockstar you envision yourself to be after downing a family-sized bottle of Fireball. Turns out, there are consequences! Who knew? Certainly not me, apparently, because I've been tap-dancing on the edge of sobriety since March 13th like a drunken tap dancer on a greased stage. Spoiler alert: I slipped. Repeatedly.

     My latest escapade, which I'm fondly (and by fondly, I mean with a healthy dose of existential dread) calling "The Great Blackout of '25," occurred on April 12th. It all started so innocently. A little chiropractic adjustment to get my spine aligned. You'd think a straightened spine would lead to a straightened mind, right? Wrong. My chiropractor might be able to crack my vertebrae, but my alcoholic brain remains stubbornly uncrackable. So, naturally, my next stop was the liquor store. It's called self-care, look it up.

     Two pints of Fireball later (my sophisticated elixir of choice), and the little voice of reason piped up. "Maybe you should stop this?" it squeaked.  As if I, a seasoned professional in the art of self-destruction, would listen to some internal Pollyanna. Instead, I continued with the drunks behind the liquor store outside their cozy little flop house. A "safe place to drink," my genius brain declared. Safety in numbers, right? Especially when those numbers are also three sheets to the wind.

     Now, I'm not one for sharing the good stuff. These fellows were already knee-deep in their watery beers. Me? I'm beyond that. I don't sip whiskey; I mainline the stuff like it's the last functioning tap of water in a desert. Efficiency is key when you're trying to achieve peak inebriation in record time. Some other, slightly more panicked little voices started whispering about my liver and my singular kidney. Ah yes, that delightful detail. For those of you playing along with this abysmal blog, I donated my left kidney to the surgical gods back in '02 for reasons that remain shrouded in a medical mystery. My brother followed suit in '18. Apparently, we have a genetic predisposition for organ failure, or maybe we just had a shared love for licking lead paint chips as kids.   We may never know.

     And speaking of impending organ failure, my best drinking buddy since we were awkward, Olde English-chugging teenagers, let's call him Tonus, is currently staring down the barrel of Stage 3 cirrhosis. The irony is thicker than a pint of syrupy Fireball – he hasn't touched a drop since November of '23! Almost a year and a half of sobriety, only to find out his liver was silently betraying him. Stubborn dorktaco never went for checkups. Could have caught it early, maybe even saved him. Now? Two months to two years, tops, if he endures the soul-crushing doses of chemotherapy. My lifelong friend, practically my brother, is going to DIE. Life's a real knee-slapper isn't it!

     Anyway, back to my own pathetic saga. After those initial two pints, my memory gets a bit… hazy. Apparently, I waltzed back to the liquor emporium for two more pints of Fireball, a couple of Four Lokos (because why not double down on bad decisions?), and a nostalgic chaser of Olde English. Then, a quick reunion with my newfound drinking buddies before a final, blurry "That's All Folks!" worthy of a Looney Tunes finale and blackout I went.

     Cut to: 12:30 AM Sunday. I awaken in the sterile wonderland of St. Luke's Hospital ER. Soiled. Sweating profusely. Two IVs sticking out of me. The ER staff suggested I stick around, but who has time for that when there's more bad decision-making to be done? Against medical advice, I bounced. They wouldn't even give me back my bike (apparently, it was having its own little adventure in the Cedar Rapids PD impound lot).

     Long story short (too late!), turns out a Good Samaritan found my unconscious ass sprawled in a ditch, my trusty bicycle dead on top of me. This saintly soul called the cops, who then called the paramedics, who then dragged my unresponsive self to the ER. Lucky for me, I was too far gone to argue with the authorities and ended up in a hospital bed instead of a drunk tank. My BAC? A respectable (read: terrifyingly lethal) 0.325. For your curious types, anything close or over 0.40 is considered "lights out, forever." They were amazed I even blinked, figuring I was a prime candidate for a coma or the crematorium I would choose that than a dirt nap.

     So, naturally, I did what any rational, newly resuscitated alcoholic would do. I stumbled back to the same damn liquor store and bought more poison. Because clearly, the universe was just testing my commitment to self-destruction. I chugged it down as I wandered through the shadowy short expanse of Redmond Park and back home, where my ever-so-patient wife had attempted to barricade the door. A key, however, is a powerful tool against even the most determined barricade. I squeezed through, hit the bed, and promptly returned to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness.

     I think I texted or called my AA sponsor sometime Sunday morning or maybe Monday. Honestly, the timeline is a bit blurry. But hey, at least I remembered to reach out.  We picked up where I dropped off in Bill's Story in the Big Book, working on my sobriety, hammering home my hopeless state of mind and body as an alcoholic, and the complete unmanageability of my life as I been living it; you know first step stuff.

     So, in short, there you have it. My latest brush with oblivion. A dark humor tale of poor choices, inexplicitly sad friendship coming to an end, and the unwavering dedication to poisoning myself.  Don't stay tuned for more adventures in self-sabotage, folks! And maybe, just maybe, send some good vibes (or a liver transplant donor) Tonus's way. He could use them. Unlike me, apparently, it seems I have a stubborn refusal to die or to learn from my mistakes. Whichever comes first. As for drinking let's go with Milo's Iced Tea, and Diet Dr. Pepper's only for now, I promise... mostly.  Gabriel O.