Letter from Puerto Rico

The good times had passed. Those good ol' drinkin' days with friends, the endless nights at the punk shows, the parties in abandoned houses, all of them…gone. People used to call me in order to have a good time but as time passed I found myself losing friends. I slept with their boyfriends, embarrassed them in public, punched them in the face, threw beer at them, screamed obscenities. You see, I was never a blackout drunk. I woke up remembering all the gory details of my drunken state. It was like my body kept going but I lost control of my mind, of my reason. You wouldn't want to cross me when I was drunk.