PO Box 1980

Six years ago I had no life, no hope, no friends. My prestigious job was a sham that I pulled off in spite of my charmless personality and wrinkled attire (I was too hungover to iron!). I maintained the sham so I could have a daily supply of liquor to drink in my poorly furnished two-room apartment in an economically depressed neighborhood. Locked in my apartment, I'd pour the first drink and my dog would leave the room. I'd turn up the stereo and dance with my reflection in the mirror, pleased that no one was around to use up my precious booze. Sometimes there were hallucinations and self-inflicted injuries. I'm told that in blackouts I woke people at all hours with tearful phone calls. These nights of madness went on for years. I never want to forget this.