My stage persona was always on. It became hard to differentiate the artist and the person, and regardless of where I was, chances are I was on 10. Making a ritual of drinking before taking the stage, I found each performance taking the shape of my blood alcohol level. These habits followed me outside the venue, and I made a shit show of any invitation. This year, Nuck and Lorenzo would celebrate their back-to-back birthdays at the same venue, resulting in a weekend of debauchery. I became an endless booze pit, and patrons in attendance from my childhood neighborhood saw a side of me that they, just like I, were yet to be accustomed to. I was loud. I was obnoxious. I was fucking drunk, and I wore my emotions like a badge of honor, giving any neighboring body the full spectacle of my existence. The weekend would end with a drunken fight between my brother and me, over something so insignificant that I can’t even remember. Fuming, I made my way to work early Monday morning, still drunk, unwilling to admit the role that alcohol played in this catastrophe. They found me in the office curled up on the floor by my desk, reeking of whiskey, with dry blood on my face. I called an ex, still a friend, to come get me, as the adrenaline had worn off and the bruises on my body made it difficult to walk. I made my way home, where I walked into my brother’s room and cried. I love my brother, and that night was a glitch in the matrix. We collectively blamed it on our ouija board experience months earlier, and I began making pancakes.
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