The Best Version?

Day 2,922

That’s a lot of days! More days than I was expecting after I dragged myself through day one in 2017.

So yeah, eight years sober today. So far, so good. The wagon is holding well. It’s either a sturdy wagon, or my grip on it has strengthened over the years. Either way, here we are.

A few weeks ago, I was talking to a shaky, frightened little somebody who was thinking about taking the big step to attend the same rehab that helped me all those years back in 2017. In fact, we were both sitting in the garden outside that very rehab, as it’s on the same grounds as where I now work. Their worker brought them for a look around and introduced us. I guess I was as an example of a success, which felt nice. They (I’m using the pronoun ‘they’ for confidentiality) were obviously very anxious and stressed about making the big move to recovery. So, in my own little roundabout way, I more or less said the following:

Tiny steps. Once you’ve built up the courage, knowledge and rediscovered the lost faith in yourself, those tentative little shuffles eventually pick up speed, and lengthen into the confident strides which ultimately have you arriving at eight years clean and sober (or wherever your recovery may be right now).

Eight years ago, I couldn’t imagine eight minutes sober was possible. But nothing is impossible if you truly want it. It’s hard, but not impossible.

You will get a tsunami of advice (good and not-so-good) from many, many people. If you try to soak it all in at once, you’ll simply drown beneath the noise. Take away what you need and see what works for you. Whatever works, keep doing that!

Do everything at your own pace and never put pressure on yourself. There are no rules for keeping yourself alive, so find and make your own and stick to them.

Find good people. Weed out, ignore and eject the bad and negative ones. Dig deep to find and reclaim your lost sense of humour – it will make the hard things easier and may ultimately save your life (it saved mine). If you really and truly want to be clean and sober – you will, and nothing on God’s earth will stop you. But all in your own time, not somebody else’s.

But the most important thing – always keep your recovery at the top of your list. Number one! If recovery isn’t at the top of your list, you ain’t got a list.

Obviously, I didn’t say all this verbatim. I was much less ‘wordy’ and more to the point when I was chatting to this person. I offered them a friendly conversation, not a sermon. I smiled a lot. I needed to show that there’s a lot to smile about when you’re not assassinating body and soul with your poison of choice. I simply wanted to get over to them the above points that worked for me. They listened. They smiled. They heard hope. That’s all they (anyone) need to hear at the biggest crossroads of their life. Hope.

Hope is the beginning of everything and the springboard to wherever you want to go. Hope got me to eight years sober. Hope will get me much further, as long as it lives within me. Wherever hope exists, so do I. The recovery baton was passed to me by many good people all those years ago when I had nothing, and I pass it on wherever and whenever I can. That’s what we all do. That is what recovery is. Selfishly save your life and pass it forward. Others will do the same by example. Recovery for yourself is selfish. It has to be – it’s literally life or death. But giving back is wondrous, warm and fulfilling.

If you’ve been reading my posts since 2018 when I began this blog, you’ll recognise all the above. I’ll repeat them until the cows come home. This is the roadmap I made for myself. It works for me. They may or may not work for you. It’s your job to find your own – and you will.

No, it isn’t all a bed of roses. Nothing ever is. Some days are hellish and others simply a white-knuckled countdown to get to bed at night sober. But as time goes on it gets better. Recovery, with tried and tested goals and roadmaps is made so much easier and stronger. Winging it on your own in the dark doesn’t work, we’ve all tried.

Some (usually non-addicted) people think it’s pointless keeping track of sober time. Just pull our socks up and get on with it. Well. We did, and we are! But having milestones and goals are a great source of inner pride and achievement. Some people feel the need to shout it out from the hilltops – and that’s fine. Some celebrate in silence – that’s fine. Others pseudonymously document it on social platforms such as (ahem) WordPress. And that’s fine too. Whatever works for you: loud and proud, quiet and content, or the privacy of silence – whichever it is, if it is keeping you clean and sober, carry on doing just that.

Does sobriety and recovery change a person?

I suppose it depends on the person. If you were an abusive, crappy person before sobriety, it would be nice to think that going through, and coming out of hell would make you a more caring and empathetic human. But unfortunately, once a dick always a dick. Recovery isn’t the fuckface whisperer.

Me?

I’m pretty much the same person as before, but now I can walk in a straight line, think more clearly and most importantly, I can fart safely. I still get paranoid, stressed, anxious, irritated, annoyed, and deal with a mild OCD. But when at one time I would let all these brain-ticks spiral out of control into a whirlwind of mental meltdown and self-destruction, I can slow myself down enough to deal with them before any carnage ensues. It doesn’t always work, but mostly it does. I also have good and loyal friends to talk to.

CBT and Mindfulness helped me with all this in the early days and still serve me well. They are not for everyone, but if they are ever offered to you, give them a go. AA works for many people but not for everyone. Find out and see if it’s for you.

I can still be a mildly irritating asshole, but I like to think that I’m now a nice mildly irritating asshole who feels guilty about the times I am mildly irritating and an asshole. But the jury is out on that.

But hopefully we all (addicted or not) strive to be the best versions of ourselves we possibly can. How we get there is as easy or as complicated as life lets us with all its landmines, headfucks, fakery and all-round shenanigan-isms.

I’m a better version of the person I once was because I can now function confidently within society (as fractured as it is), give back to humanity (as vulnerable and lost as it is) as much as I possibly can. I appreciate what I have and have not. With alcohol, I had nothing.

I’m light years away from the best version of me because, in all reality, does that even exist in any of us? Really?

I suppose the goal is in always striving to get there, even if it’s always out of reach. It’s not a bad goal really. Is it?

Actually, I lie. The best version of me does actually exist. It’s my son.

Take care everyone x

Juggling Dust

Day 2,840.

Plaiting fog, knitting gravy, juggling dust – just some titles of tricky little human irritants (caused by other actual human irritants) that make the roadmap of life far from easy.

They drop their spectral fingers on the anti-gravity button, causing everything we hold dear to rise up, fade and disappear. One minute everything is there within huggable distance: money, joy, employment, love, friendship, ripped abs (insert your cherished-whatever, here). The next: 3,2,1 up, up, and away they all go! Everything has gone. Everything but us, the emptiness, frustration and anger. Invisible ankle weights bear down keeping us fixed to the earth as we gaze up through glazed eyes, watching everything we had, shrink to a dot. Just when we least expect, it strikes like a prehistoric predator acting as prophet – Veloci-Rapture. All gone. Poof!

Of course, it doesn’t all happen at once. We don’t get it all over with in one agonising lump, then start afresh. No; like our breath in Winter, it evaporates in increments. Days, weeks, months, and years meld and blur behind us. A thief in the night\day\dawn – take your pick.

I don’t actually know where I’m going with this post. Really, I don’t! I may have written myself an over-wordy sinkhole. Well, you’re this far in with me. You may as well get the popcorn.

From screaming our tiny lungs dry on our first day of birth, to screaming back at the empathy-hoover of an automated voice on the end of a phone. We get though life by juggling dust. Unfortunately, it’s obligatory and non-negotiable whether we like it (we don’t) or not. We are not told about such things at our very beginning as we wet our pants, dribble and throw our food at parents. But it soon creeps up as we grow, as life kicks us in our financial, mental, and spiritual backsides. Them’s the unwritten rules. We are the jugglers of dust. Poof!

All life on earth could paved with such an endless abundance of love, joy and sustenance for all – if only it weren’t for one clutch of nasty little elements – humans. Or more accurately, the excremental (not a typo), labyrinthine undercurrents of human nature.

Add a heap of wealth to a nice human. Now sprinkle in some success. Stir in some hype, and add dollops of ego. Let it all cook slowly in government buildings, tv and film studios, organised religious churches and the like. Decorate with the lies and deception of the high-earning, low living accumulation of digitised, online Influencer detritus who throw their pixilated barbs into us for, follows, likes and cash.

Let it all simmer until you end up with charming a looking dish – totally inedible due to the rotten ingredients that steam and writhe within. I’d advise being in running distance of a toilet after gorging on all that.

Sounds bad? That’s us!

You still here? My apologies, and thanks.

It breaks my heart to see once-perfectly naturally beautiful girls and women, whose faces and bodies have been influenced, co-opted, branded and self-altered, become clones of one another. Lips are swollen into permanent pouts. Botox infused foreheads refuse natural expression, and (perfect?) eyebrows: waxed, tweezed, threaded, pencilled, tattooed and micro bladed within an inch of their once wild little lives.

Then we have the hollowed-out cheeks and the skull-like gauntness that haunt tabloids thanks to Ozempic or other dodgy alternatives. It was good at the start, they thought. Then . . .

The influencers make sure that natural beauty is never enough. A little fix here and there to begin with is never enough. Nothing is ever enough. We can all look never enough together until we all look exactly the same. Then comes thrill of the chase. More, more, more!

Addiction is its own savage and repulsive animal. But if it is fed daily by the greed and antipathy of the scum at the top of the mortality chain – it breeds and runs feral to the vulnerable who have already been emptied of the promises life once gave them. Its victims once the highest of intelligence and the most radiant of beauties, the strongest and most impenetrable of bodies and wills. But each will be stripped and ripped by the teeth of addiction into the most vulnerable and broken of souls. The animal is kept fed by the hand of the obsidian darkness, the bleakest of human nature. Fed by money, greed, desire; domination over every thing and every one. Nobody gets out with their dignity, beauty, finances, or souls intact. Nobody gets out alive.

As a child I used to believe in God. I was a cherubic little catholic; a choirboy and altar boy at my local church. I attended mass every Sunday. Now I don’t believe. Life saw to that. Nothing in particular happened. Life happened. But what sane god would allow the state of this once beautiful planet and its occupants to self-implode and burn like this? All tv and online news media are like scenes from Hellraiser and American Psycho. I’ve seen firsthand what organised religion can do to vulnerable, trusting people who become lost. All in the name of a loving god. They unwittingly lose their soul via their bank accounts and dignity. There are many, many genuinely good people of faith out there. There are. But devils walk among them dressed as angels and acolytes.

But god is not for me. I’ve never met a god that practices what he/she preaches. I’ve never met a god. Have you?

I’m not a vegetarian or a vegan. I’m an out-and-out carnivore. It’s in my (our) nature. I’m more than well aware, as we all are (or should be) of the sickening and horrific practices inflicted on innocent animals to get their meat to our oversized plates and mouths. I do feel that constant, distant rumble of guilt in my conscience as I chew on other-species flesh. But unfortunately, the meat still goes down. We carnivores shouldn’t be able to easily sleep at night. Our minds should be riddled constantly with deafening nightmares of the torture and depravity, perpetrated on our fellow, other-species earth dwellers. But sleep, we do. One day I will cut out meat altogether. I think it’s the right thing to do. They say ‘meat is murder.’ If you care about such things, I suppose technically, it is. I think about these things. I have a conscience. We all have a conscience!

But the slaying doesn’t stop at other-species.

And boy do we murder ourselves on a barbaric and disgustingly grand scale that would make Satan and his sick little minions wince a little as he hammers up the sign on Hell’s basement which says ‘No More Vacancies.’

Femicide, infanticide, genocide, suicide – pick a cide – but whatever cide you pick – it’s always the same cide of a bad cide of a bad lot. The inhuman side of human nature.

As children, we have the get-out clause written as the bliss of ignorance and innocence. As sane adults, we can’t use that same article. We’re willingly and gratefully ill-informed. We should know better, do better, be better. But we don’t.

If the human race were an actual greyhound race, we’d all starve to death in our wide-open traps, as the hare runs in endless circles.

You sill here? Wow! Help!

But all that stuff, the jet-black stuff, that’s all human nature gone wrong, stuff. The dark underbelly of a superb bit of still-evolving biological super-engineering, given as a gift from the universe to a spinning rock called earth. We schlepped out of the sea one day, many years ago and Bingo! You and me.

Humans. The average Joe. Joe Bloggs – just getting though life the best we can.

Always double-checking we are wearing pants before we walk out our front door, bleary-eyed in the morning. We fill our cars with trusting humans on the school run or work, and try not to hit and maim other biological familiars in similar, speedy tin-can transport. We start work and finish the day in the hopes of not trepanning our co-workers with a long, thick shard of coffee mug when they infuriate us. We bank on them giving us the same courtesy.

Most humans are fantastic ambassadors for upright, intelligent, and chatty biology. We do try our best on a daily basis. We really do. Although we only use a tiny fraction of our brain capacity, the miniscule part that we do benefit from is mostly put to good use. Mostly. We invented the wheel, some time ago, all by ourselves! We can pretty much take the credit for miracles of medical science. All the arts? Yep, all that was us. We also invented Love Island and TikTok, but we all make mistakes. We’re only human.

This post was supposed to be quite short. A rant and ramble about how life could be so wonderful if it were not for the hearts of darkness inside the small percentage of humans belching out smoke in front of distorted mirrors. The inflicting of so much pain on the rest of humankind, animal-kind, and ecological-kind. How recovery from addiction is made so much harder by the greed and soul-filth of others trying to drag us off our wagons and under the wheels. Why we are constantly influenced to be absolutely anything and everything, but ourselves. I could have just said that. But I didn’t.

If you made it this far, you’re a trooper and a star. Unfortunately, I can’t give you your time back. But I can give you thanks.

Thanks.

Take care everyone xx

More, Now, Again, by Elizabeth Wurtzel

I’m in the middle of writing a new post, so I thought I’d put up a short review of a great (or not) book I’ve recently read.

Published in 2002, More, Now, Again is Elizabeth Wurtzel’s second and final memoir.

In 1994, Elizabeth Wurtzel blasted into the literary scene with her searing, funny, and brutally honest debut memoir, Prozac Nation. It chronicles her treatment for depression and became an international bestseller, spawning a film of the same name starring Christina Ricci and Jessica Lange. But after her treatment and success, things didn’t pan out the way she hoped.

In 1998, I had a ticket to go and see her do a reading at Waterstone’s in Manchester when she was promoting her second book, Bitch: In Praise of Difficult Women. For whatever reason, I didn’t go. I was probably busy doing nothing. What a dick! But it’s probably good that I didn’t, and this book recounts why.

More, Now, Again tells of Elizabeth’s downward spiral after the whirlwind of publicity and pressure of promoting Prozac Nation.

She takes herself away from friends, family, and other distractions to work on her new book. She can’t concentrate and sleeps too much. The book isn’t happening. Her therapist prescribes Ritalin, used for ADHD in children. The drug hits the spot and good things begin happening.

But she wants it to hit the spot better.

She crushes up her pills and snorts the prescribed dose.

She was right. It hit the spot better!

But then she’s snorting her medication forty-times a day until it runs out. Next, she’s hoovering-up vast quantities of cocaine and dragging various men in and out of bed. The self-harming, via her legs is getting out-of-hand.

The book isn’t going well. Things turn to shit. Elizabeth turns to shit. Life isn’t going well. Elizabeth isn’t going well.

Hospitals, detox, recovery house, etc, etc.

Elizabeth Wurtzel is completely self-obsessed, self-indulgent and needy. But most of all she really, really wants to tell us about it; how badly-done-to this privileged, beautiful Jewish girl is. Luckily, she’s a brutally talented and astute writer; hyper intelligent, extremely funny (the gallows-humour count is high in this one) and eye-wateringly honest.

I completely understand why many people despise this book (and they do, in droves).

She pisses people off. She always has, with her high and low opinions (of herself) and judgements.

But I’ve always loved her writing, and it’s such a shame she’s no longer with us. We need her more than ever now in this trash fire of a world. I miss her blazing honesty, intelligence and biting humour. I so wish I’d gone to see her in Manchester that day in 1998, when I was busy doing nothing. Again, now, more – what a dick!

You’ll probably be irritated beyond belief reading More, Now, Again – which is why you should definitely read it. If your irritation is such that it moves you to want to rip off your own arm and repeatedly slam the soggy and bloodied end in your face, you should definitely read Prozac Nation.

Or you may just adore them both as you fall in love with Elizabeth and her raw, beautiful writing. Your call. Good luck.

Today We Shall Have No Eggs

Day: 2,806

The big Six-oh is coming for me this year. Fifty-nine is fine but sixty doesn’t sit right. A five and a nine is perfectly acceptable and sounds (in the scheme of delusion) youngish.

Six-oh sounds old as it waits and percolates. For fifty-nine whole years it’s there, just at the end of the road, hanging about, checking me out like an aged mugger. Mentally I’m in my early twenties, possibly a late teenager. Probably Emo. Or I could quite well be my sobriety years – seven. Mentally, it’s all possible. Unfortunately, I must act my actual age and do stuff that appears rational and sane. I dislike doing that.

When I was drinking, I was no age at all. It was bad programming going through the motions. AI – artificially ignorant. My faulty wiring sparked and tripped. Ageless but aging, breathing but lifeless. My brain had been made redundant and had to go elsewhere. Rational thinking and cognition were inoperable and of no consequence. Bottled red grapes saw to that.

There are no downsides to recovery. There may feel like huge losses at the very beginning: more confidence after a drink, better creativity after a drink, more sociable after a drink, better lifestyle with a drink etc. All gone? No. But we all believe it to be true and cling to it at the beginning. It’s one of the reasons recovery is hard and relapse can be a Merry-go-round. All the (so-called) life enhancements above, and other delusions are a popular falsity dragged along by Dutch courage. It feels true at the time but it’s all alcoholic smoke and mirrors. The confidence, creativity and the lifestyle improve immeasurably when sober. And you don’t need to apologise afterwards.

But regret does rear its ugly head now and again. I have many. But as we know, constant hindsight can be the assassin of even the strongest sobriety. My latest regret is being on the wrong side of the aging tracks when I finally got sober

I got sober at Fifty. Now I’m almost Sixty.

Oh why didn’t I wise-up quicker, get help earlier? The amazing things I could have done with those extra, younger years.

But I didn’t. Devilish hindsight.

I have done amazing things with the years I’ve had (and have). It’s a shame I left it later in life, but that’s all it is – a shame. Tough. There’s no right or wrong time to get clean and sober. When it’s time, it’s time. Regret won’t kill me – dwelling on it might. So, I’m always wary and vigilant. But I’m not impervious to mistakes. I’m human, just like you. No better, no worse. Human.

Now, as a recovering alcoholic, my elder brain has returned like the proverbial prodigal son. It’s been doing wonders over the last seven years. But lately it seems to be glitching, corrupting and giving bad data. It’s as if it’s fighting and ridiculing me. It’s fiddling with buttons and levers that it shouldn’t for no apparent reason – just because it can.

I rarely remember my dreams, but below is a snippet of one it ‘gifted’ me last year. Don’t worry as you begin this, it’s about as erotic as straining hot vomit through an old sock. The only person who needs a trigger warning is me. Also, my brain couldn’t be bothered going the extra mile with glorious technicolour. We are in grainy, scratched black and white. Good ole monochrome. Anyway.

I’m lying in bed next to a beautiful woman. We’re naked beneath the covers. I’m in tears and apologising to her profusely. She is staring up at the ceiling, arms firmly folded over her boobs. She is obviously and absolutely mortified. The creases in her pursed lips gouge deep in utter disgust. Her jaw appears welded. After all of my pleads I beg her to say something. There’s a quiet cough. Eyes still skyward, she utters this immortal line. “Well, your chicken is definitely cluckin’ – but today we shall have no eggs,”

What the actual hell! Not so much a life-enriching reverie as rather a cruel blotch of anxiety-inducing, inferiority complex enhancing, cognitive distortion. Make of the above what you will. There are any number of ways to interpret, decipher, analyse, and decode that slice of unconscious wackery. In any of the scenarios, there are none in which I emerge with my dignity intact. But to say I woke from that dream, not exactly feeling my tip-top best, is an understatement. It still haunts me. I think we agree that something wasn’t acting in my favour.

Thanks, brain – you’re a natural wonder of biological engineering that could have transported me to any number of amazing and inspiring visualisations known to man, woman, or beast. But no; ‘today we shall have no eggs.’ Not even in colour. Anyway.

I’ve always been a drummer. A really good one! I’d dearly love to get back to it, truly. I’m as good now, if not better than I ever was. But the looming Six-oh and Brain are conspiring – switching the ears off. Deafness, a raging tinnitus and now, hearing aids. I also have possible spondylitis in my neck and spine. Everything is being fiddled with. Oh, the joys. But hey-ho! I’ve done my stint. I’m thankful for what drumming and music gave my life.

Not all bad news. Luckily, thanks to a long and extremely thorough eye test this week, all is wonderful and good in the hood! So far. So yeah, I can’t hit skins with sticks anymore (I can but I shouldn’t), but I can still read and write. Two of my longest soul-squeeze passions. I can still do long-winded recovery posts online that hardly anybody reads.

Hardly anyone reads because (a) I don’t keep up with all the ‘I want the world to read all my amazing posts’ technology that WordPress offers; or (b) I’m a shit writer. But you’re the judge of that, not me. The (a) scenario I may do something about in the near future if I think it’s worth it. The (b) scenario? Ah well.

But whether I’m read by one interested person or a million scrollers who pass me by – it’s fine by me. I enjoy the process either way. If that one interested person sees a sliver of light somewhere in my ramblings and gets the help they need, then me and my almost Six-oh brain can at least agree on one thing – we did good.

Take care and be safe, everyone. Oh, and sweet dreams (hope they’re better than mine) xx

The Power of 7

Day 2,604

Well, so much for posting here on a regular basis, especially after making such a big deal about the irregularity and pitiful state of my old posts. But with 7 solid sober years under my belt this month, I thought I should at the very least show up where it all began and write, if only to remind myself on here.

* * *

I didn’t show up. I wrote the above paragraph on May 4th, with the honest intention of posting a lengthy piece of positivity-filled writing on my sober anniversary day (14th May). It’s now almost July. That’s as far as I got. Simply acknowledging it to myself on my hard drive. Sometimes that’s enough. God knows what you’ll get here by the time this is posted. If it ever gets posted. Good luck.

Anyway, the sober anniversary came and went, as all other types of days come and go. They start, things happen here and there, and then they end, until the next one begins. My day was pretty much the same as yours (unless you’re a serial killer or the fly on your screen that’s reading this). You get the picture. The anniversary is a metaphorical notch on my bedpost, minus the grunting, sweating, back ache and mess. I’m sure there are much better analogies than that but, hey-ho. Luckily nobody pays to read my literary incompetence, which lets me off the clarity and sanity hook.

I do feel a little disingenuous in celebrating the stopping of something (knowingly diluting my blood with alcohol) that I shouldn’t have been doing in the first place. Especially when the world is spinning out of control like a trash fire and seemingly heading towards its own oblivion. Men, women, and children are having bombs raining down on them whilst snipers pick them off as they are starving to death. AI is being trained to steal the work of authors, musicians, and artists without having to bother with those pesky little details such as permission, copyright or the law. The climate is turning into an MRI machine, bombarding the burning earth and seas with this and that, and none of it good. Seasons are slowly going out of sequence. Countless people are living (dying) in debt, without being able to afford even the bare minimum to sustain themselves. They can’t afford to live. They can’t afford die.

As all the above biblical darkness and so much more continues; metal birds filled with breathing human life are falling from the skies, seemingly on a daily basis, creating non-breathing human non-life. Flooding, burning, infecting, shooting, stabbing, quaking, erupting, slaughtering, warring, dictator-ing, starving: dying-dying-dying.

End times? Near the end times? Or have times already ended without us knowing as we stare zombie-like with anaesthetised empathy at our phones? At least we’re not over there. At least we’re not them. At least it’s not my kids. At least it’s not me! Oh, a new TikTok with a cat!

Anyway! Happy thoughts, eh?

So, yours truly celebrating being a good boy for seven years doesn’t quite feel the same these days as it once did, especially after a few minutes of scrolling through the news. Maybe stop scrolling the doom? Reading the paper? Watching the news? Just pretend it’s not there?

In the old days my carpet bulged with all the things I’d swept underneath it. All the hidden life in-between floorboard and carpet made it hard to walk across the room, but at least I didn’t see or hear what I didn’t need to. It was worth the inconvenience. Or at least, that’s what alcohol told me. But now it’s no longer there to give me bad advice. It left (was kicked out) 7 years ago. My bad advice to myself is now completely my own and self-inflicted. Hey, let’s celebrate?

Well, I am. I’m simply not shouting it from the rooftops, phoning and emailing everybody I know. Gone are the days of posting my yearly joy on multiple social platforms and waiting for the ‘likes’ and congratulations to roll in (and they kindly did, because most people are nice and want to see others doing well). When my trusty sober app notified me last month of my achievement, pinging me awake in the morning, I may have given a little internal yay! before getting up, having breakfast, brushing my teeth, and beginning the day. I didn’t make anyone aware of the significance of the day.

In other words, I didn’t tell anybody. I’ve only told you, but I don’t know who you are, and that’s ok. Yay! Actually, I may have quietly told one or two people in passing that the date was arriving at some point, and they will have told me they were happy, maybe even proud. That’s enough.

I suppose the reality of getting on with my day, and living a life is quiet celebration enough. I’m making it sound like a silent disco – minus the dancing, and the people, and the music. Yep, another crap analogy. It sounded good at the time. But it’s free of charge.

Am I embarrassed about my recovery and it coming around every year? Is that why I’m not making a big deal about it?

Absolutely not.

But I am embarrassed that I haven’t achieved more with my sobriety. I’ve achieved a lot, much more than I thought I would ever do. But I’ve always been cursed with a brain that has placed a bar way too high for everything I do. I’m embarrassed by my internal procrastination and laziness. I’m embarrassed that I’ve lost control of my future, and I’m not exactly where I envisioned to be in my present. Maybe I’ve achieved enough (my mind gives the middle finger as I wrote that).

Facing the days head-on and tackling life’s shenanigans without the aid of my old liquid invisibility cloak, doesn’t make me want to sing it from the rooftops as I once did. Life without alcohol, and getting on with it no matter what, is simply, life. It’s what everybody does every day. Sometimes it’s good, sometimes it’s a shitshow. The self-delusion was simpler with alcohol until that option had to be deleted. I can still delude myself, but it’s harder and wears off quicker.

Don’t get me wrong. If you’re reading this and your knuckles are white from being one day/week/month/year – clean and sober, you shout it from the fucking rooftops as loud as you can. Get on social media and tell everyone your amazing achievements. Post the screen captures of sobriety anniversaries. Go and visit your IRL (yes I can netspeak) friends and let them hug you with pride. Have some well-deserved LOL’s together. If you still have any family left, repeat all the above. Anything that makes you feel good, confident, motivated, and alive – do that. You completely and absolutely deserve it. You’re making the impossible, possible. You will make it if you want to make it. It’s the want bit that’s important. Being clean and sober is the most important and life-affirming thing you will ever do! Some people liken it to being a warrior. Be a warrior! Be the warrior in the army of yourself. In time, maybe you’ll help others in the fight. But it’s not obligatory. Do what you need to do, not what other people think you should do.

So, why haven’t I made my 7-year sober anniversary sound as amazing as you beginning your sober journey?

It is amazing. Firstly, it’s amazing I’m alive. It’s amazing I have retained enough brain cells to write all this stuff online to complete strangers. It’s amazing this account exists. It exists because I exist. It’s amazing I can hear birdsong in the rain. It’s amazing I witness the sun in the day and the moon at night. It’s amazing I have people who still want to be my friend. It’s amazing I can read all the books I want to read and listen to all the music I want to listen to. It’s amazing that my mum’s passing last year didn’t bring alcohol back into my life. It’s amazing that I’m employed and still employable. It’s amazing I can smile and laugh, sometimes when I don’t want to, but to make others smile and laugh. But the most amazing thing of all . . .

A card arriving with a present. The card said this:

Dad, HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!! Hope you take it easy and read a ton!

You’re an inspiration, thanks for being amazing and I’m proud of you every single day. Keep doing what you’re doing, you’re the best!

From your favourite son, love you loads xxx

If my sober anniversary didn’t come around every year – if my sober anniversary wasn’t amazing – if my sober anniversary didn’t exist – I would never get to read these stunning words from my son. I would never get to ever see or talk to him. I would never get to tell him how proud I am of him and how much I love him. I would never get to hear how proud he is of me and how much he loves me.

I would never get to feel how proud I am of myself.

I just never need to shout about it anymore. Or maybe, in a way, I just have. Shhh . . .

Take care everyone x

Xeno’s Paradox

Another great great novel for you. I’ve been reading the books of Bill Bailey (the writer not the comedian) for many years now. A prolific, talented, and engaging storyteller that should definitely have a bigger audience. His non fiction is also worth your time, also. Anyway, here’s Xeno’s Paradox.

University lecturers, Luca and Max are brother and sister. Although they are genetic twins they don’t come from the same parents. They don’t understand it either, but they will. They are unsure that they are even human, but that is the very least of their problems.

We are in London, 800 years in the future. The only progress making great strides is greed, corruption, and surveillance. Innovation in technology, along with hope for humanity, ground to a halt many years ago and nobody knows why. Nobody questions the huge population drop. If fact nobody questions anything. The Re-ed process makes sure of that. Max and Luca suspect that history has been tampered with by their corrupt government.

Their plan to break into The Mint, an impenetrable government complex that houses the data they need, is put to the test by the deadliest of security. They need to retrieve the information they suspect has been compromised, to see how much of humanity’s past has been stolen from their lives. It’s never been attempted before, because it’s impossible. But something is pushing and urging them on, to take the chance – to risk everything. In an explosive, lethal, and otherworldly battle, they achieve their goal and discover much more than data – they are being helped by an unseen force.

This is only the beginning.

In Xeno’s Paradox, Bill Bailey has written a mind-weaving novel that reveals many levels and layers within its pages. You could be forgiven for reading it as a bullet-paced, sci-fi, and political thriller, but it’s so much more than that.

The book takes on philosophies of consciousness, the self, the universe, love, and how ‘good’ affects and works in tandem with its rotten twin, ‘evil’ (and vice-versa). It explores what is really pulling the invisible strings behind the too-big-to-fail corporations and governments, and offers some possible answers of hope along the way. It’s a literary MRI on the human condition.

The book is impeccably written by a talented author in charge of devastating wit, political awareness, and philosophical thought. He’s the architect of characters that live and breathe with us in our world and others. He skewers realism with the mind-blowing paradoxes we live with on a daily basis.

If you like the metaphysical intertwining’s of The Matrix, you’ll adore this book. If you like past-faced sci-fi thriller action, this book has you covered. It has everything you need, and more.

Highly recommended.

Also by the author:

THE HAUG QUINTET:

Taping Whores, Split Infinities, Oceans Apart, Comedians of Violence, Times Two.

Is Alice?

Stone the Crows

Xeno’s Paradox

The Ouroboros Ate the Tale

NON FICTION:

The Ghost Society

Tap cover to take you to the novel’s Amazon page

A Lad Insane?

Day 2,450

Among the many that I cherish, there are two quotes that have always stuck in my mind. I’ve always remembered them but never fully taken them in, until now. But with the creaking grind of time, they have taken on a more saddening and darker significance in my brain. The first is by David Bowie:

“I’ve got a library that I keep the ones I really really like. I look around my library some nights and I do these terrible things to myself – I count up the books and think, how long I might have to live and think, ‘F@#%k, I can’t read two-thirds of these books.’ It overwhelms me with sadness.”

The second is by the actor who played (amongst many other roles) the original and definitive Eric Draven character from The Crow, Brandon Lee:

“Because we do not know when we die, we get to think of life as an exhaustible well. And yet everything happens only a certain number of times, and a very small number really. How many more times will you remember a certain afternoon of your childhood, an afternoon so deeply a part of your being that you cannot conceive of your life without it? Perhaps four, or five times more? Perhaps not even that. How many more times will you watch the full moon rise? Perhaps twenty. And yet it all seems limitless.”

I actually heard Brandon Lee saying these words in an interview in the 90s; it was one of the extra features on The Crow DVD. I remember thinking even then, they were extremely wise words for somebody so young. But when your dad is Bruce Lee, wisdom, deep thinking, and talent (and unfortunately, a mysterious and premature death) trickles through the DNA. But it wasn’t until I read his words in black and white that the sentiments resonated so much.

Reading both quotes again at 58 years old, (as Bowie with his books) overwhelms me with sadness. The deep thoughts of two extremely talented human beings whose careers in music, film, and art I followed for a big chunk of my life. Both thinking about their own mortality amidst their successful careers. Both are now gone. Bowie died of cancer at 69 years old. Lee was shot and killed by a dummy bullet during the filming of The Crow – he was only 28 years old. Life is very short.

Fun fact. Did you know that the title and lyrics of David Bowie’s song, The Jean Genie from his album Aladdin Sane, were inspired by one of his literary heroes, the novelist, poet and activist, Jean Genet? No? Now you do.

Before I read the Bowie quote, I was also guilty of working out how many of my books I could possibly read before my breath runs out. No doubt my tiny library of around 300 or so books is nothing compared to Mr Bowie. I plough through them at a rate of approximately 20 to 30 per year. That is nothing compared to other devourers of books, but it’s enough for me. If I do live to a good old age I will reach my goal, but . . .

The problem is, new or second-hand, I buy more books. I’m lessening my chances with every book haul. It could be much worse; I could be spending all my money on alcohol. The irony being that my book problem would no longer be a problem, because it wouldn’t exist. I wouldn’t be able to read. I wouldn’t be able to write. You wouldn’t be reading this because it wouldn’t exist and eventually, neither would I. And the cherry to top it all off, I wouldn’t give a flying camel’s fanny about any of it.

But I don’t drink alcohol, and (airborne dromedaries genitalia aside) I do care. Hence the brain wonderings (and wanderings) on mortality. My life is far from perfect but it’s ok. At the moment it’s calm and pain-free enough to do the things I want to do. I try not to worry as much as I once did but it (like my book-grabs) is a hard habit to break. My sleeping patterns are a little haywire, but I do sleep. So, for anything to get in the way of all the things I’m now able to do; medical, financial or otherwise, worries me. I mean, I’m not naïve, it will happen, but at least give me 5 or 10 years of peace. I know it’s a stretch but . . . Please? I don’t believe in a god, so who the hell am I pleading to?

Universe! You’ll do! Give me another 5 to 10 years and I’ll hug all the trees you want and be a good boy. I’ll go vegetarian. I’ll wipe the seat after I pee. But let me do stuff in peace for a few more years. Pretty please!

As I write these words, I’m still waiting for the results of a bowel cancer test. It’s not because I have signs or symptoms, but because I’m of a certain age, I have to (voluntarily) get tested every two years. The results won’t tell me if I do or don’t have cancer. They will either say that further tests are needed, or not. Two years ago, no further tests were needed. But that was two years ago. A lot can change in 730 days.

And it has.

Within those 730 days I’ve been put on blood pressure tablets because my readings were dangerously high (in the 180s). I now have a lovely little umbilical hernia. Tinnitus screams constantly in my ears these days, making simple pleasures such as listening to music, not simple or pleasurable. The pressures in my eyes have become much higher over 730 days, happily winging their way to Glaucoma, macular degeneration, and eventual blindness. The only thing that’s improved over two years is my teeth. No alcohol or cigarettes and having to pay for private dentistry has kept the ones I have left, in pretty good condition, firmly jammed in my gums. No doubt many years of drinking, smoking and loud music have contributed to things wearing out, tearing, blocking, and snapping off. Nothing has actually snapped off, by the way – but give it time, something will.

Well, that was a bit of a Debbie Downer. Maybe I need to be a little more positive and show some gratitude.

My blood pressure is now at normal levels thanks to the medication. My hernia is tiny and painless at the moment; not significant enough to warrant surgery. But if it grows and tears through my stomach, forcing my guts plop onto the floor into a steaming, bloody mess, surgery may apparently be considered. The tinnitus is annoying and maybe badly affecting my hearing but I can still hear. Eh, what? Obviously, I’ve taken no action to get my hearing looked at, diagnosed, and possibly treated. Maybe do that eh? What? Instead of complaining. My eyes are monitored every year and my eyesight is pretty decent. I read 30 books last year without any problems so I’m not doing too bad. I have teeth in my mouth and I can eat without pain. I don’t deserve them after years of abuse, but there they are like a little enamel graveyard in my mouth. And as far as I’m aware, nothing on my body has actually snapped off. I’m pretty sure of that.

There, that sounds a little better. A bit of gratitude and positivity never hurts anyone. Unless you happen to be ungrateful and negative, then being a miserable little shit is quite normal.

I’ve actually forgotten what the point of this post was. Ah, mortality!

Universe? You ain’t off the hook! Trees/good boy/pee-free seats. Don’t forget!

Serendipity (or the universe) is bizarre. As I was writing all the above, a letter from the hospital has just (right now) been handed to me by my dad. It will be the results of my test because I’m not expecting anything else. I haven’t opened it yet. It could go either way. Here goes.

‘No further tests are needed at this time.’ Phew! Two years until the next. 730 days to do stuff. Knowing my luck, on my morning bus, the driver will have to slam his, or her brakes on and I’ll go merrily flying down the stairs from the top deck; hernia exploding, teeth smashed, my glasses slicing into my eyes as sombody’s umbrella stabs into my ear, piercing my brain. But happy thoughts, eh?

“Dear Universe. Two years grace in the space of one post ain’t too shabby. Keep that up and we’ll both be ok. Many thanks my swirly, gassy, black-hole friend. By the way, just in case; if God really did create you, please can you give me a head’s-up. I don’t want to be rooting for the wrong team and hugging trees for no reason. Cheers.

P.S. I’m not entirely sure I can forgive you for taking away David Lynch from us this month. But I’ll try.”

This post didn’t go the way I planned. I’m not sure if that’s a good or bad thing. If you spent precious time getting this far when you could have been doing something else more constructive – thanks. You did good.

Take care everyone x

Small Holdings, by Nicola Barker

A book review this week.

I’m working on my next addiction/recovery/whatever-it-may-be post for next week. I’ll probably keep alternating like this for a while. It seems to work – for me anyway.

Nicola Barker is a bit nuts. She is also funny, insightful, engaging, philosophical, and probably (maybe definitely) a genius. Maybe. But she is nuts. Small Holdings is her second novel and was published in 1995.

The park is not only their workplace, it’s the heart and pulse of their lives. But something isn’t right. It’s coming up to Friday and the very important meeting with the council.

Douglas is in charge of the park and wants to show the council his big idea. But something is wrong with Douglas. Driving a tractor into a greenhouse and destroying it, maybe a bit of a red flag.

Saleem used to work at the park until she lost one of her legs. She’s still there, she shouldn’t be, but she is. She’s terrorising the workforce (such as it is), especially Phil. Saleem wants Douglas out of the way so he doesn’t screw up Friday’s big meeting. She wants Phil to go in his place. Saleem does not work there anymore. But there she is, hassling poor Phil.

Phil doesn’t do meetings, or responsibility, or anything involving pain or responsibility. Phil does plants, trees, flowers, soil, and grass. He is beaten-up, drugged, terrorised, abused, and worst of all, shaved. Phil isn’t happy.

Nancy is the park’s glamorous driver. She has been crashing the van too often lately and Douglas isn’t happy about it. He doesn’t know about her eye, or the gun she keeps in her glove compartment, just in case. Doug wants her gone.
Ray hasn’t many thoughts on anything much. He’s not big on thinking.

Why does Phil keep seeing an old Chinese man stealing onions and dancing in the park? One day, Phil gets a bit too close. Way too close.

This is such a fantastic little novel (or novella, whatever). Nicola Barker writes about loners, eccentrics, and marginalised people in ways that are compelling, witty, and philosophical. This is the best of her work that I’ve read so far. Her style is wonderfully odd and unconventional which adds to her skewed characters and their strange lives.

If you need to engage your brain about the big stuff whilst smiling at the same time, this will help it all happen. Nicola Barker is the mad scientist of British literature. She is brilliant. But nuts.

I wish this review was better, but it’s not. I wish I was hung like a stallion instead of a hamster, but I’m not. I wish I was an extraordinarily talented, mad genius like Nicola Barker, but I’m not. There ya go, them’s the breaks.

This fabulous author has written 13 novels and 2 collections of short stories. Her novel Darkmans was shortlisted for the Man Booker prize in 2007. She has a brand-new novel out this year, Tony Interrupter. I’ll be waiting.

The Floorboards Creak and Break

Day 2,429

Although addiction and recovery were the catalysts for this blog ever existing way back in 2018, I want to try and vary things this year and attempt to write about other things. It may or may not happen.

But today is not that day. This one was inspired by something thought-provoking that I found recently in a box at home. It got me thinking, as interesting things do. Especially when you start snooping around on yourself.

As I was tidying out some drawers last month, I found something that I’d completely forgotten about. It was a black, hardback A5 notebook from the end of February 2018. I vaguely recall writing in it, but I can definitely remember being unbearably cold. I was taking shelter in the local library to get warm. I had ridiculous amounts of clothing layers on, and a huge, thick coat. But the icy air had already gripped my bones and I couldn’t get warm. Remnants from a storm called, The Beast from the East was whipping everything around outside. This particular storm and it’s after-effects seemed to be going on forever.

I had only been out of rehab for around two months, after twelve weeks of intense, recovery-filled days there. I think I was doing some course or another at the time.

My mind was still a cocktail of excited, proud, overconfident, and terrified, which when mixed together produces its own version of brain fog. This is probably why my memory of writing in this notebook is very unclear, but I can remember the weather, what I was wearing, and the place I was defrosting myself in. It’s akin (I guess) to some form of alcoholic dementia, which of course is self-inflicted.

Anyway.

This notebook was thick with lined pages inside but unfortunately for me, only one page (both sides) was filled in. It was strange seeing my old handwriting again from that period. It was still pretty neat considering the recent past chaos of my life, and the arctic pandemonium outside the library. Apart from that one page, the only other words written are on the inside cover. It reads:

Novels, short stories, non-fiction, etc. Anything goes. Don’t stress. It’s not that important. It really isn’t.

Don’t stress. It’s not that important. It really isn’t. When it comes to writing again after so many years of being away from it, that’s actually good advice. It takes the pressure off those daunting blank pages. Perhaps the reason that the rest of the notebook was blank is because I didn’t take my own advice.

Or was it?

I did some snooping on myself in the 2018 part of my journal, in which I’ve been writing doggedly since 2005. It told me exactly why all those pages were blank. Did my pen run out? Did some part of my body freeze and snap off? Did God tell me ‘not’ to do it?

Read what was written in the notebook first, and I’ll spill what my informant (me) unearthed. I’ve copied-out the writing and kept the punctuation as it is. No changes. Good luck.

* * *

28-2-18

My finger wipes a lens into the steam on the window. The world flickers by, as it always has. In the time I’ve been away, nothing and everything has changed within the blink of an eye. The death and life game, as always, remain in constant flux. People, traffic, and coffee – wired people turn red for a second. I’ve bitten my nails too close again as I gulp at the bloody taste. The world comes to a halt as the bus doors open and the sick, malty smell of beer hits me. It’s seven-thirty in the morning, but nothing surprises me anymore. Or so I thought.

Rock-bottom.

A place you read about, look-up or hear about. Even when you think you are there and other people look down on you, and tell you to pull yourself together – the floorboards creak and break, and you fall further downwards into the darkness.

There are many levels to this rock-bottom, the hell that never ends. Some people keep falling, never to be seen again, most find a floor and crawl away, into the light like Lazarus. Rock-bottom is an open house, anyone is welcome. There are two ways to vacate your room – in a body bag or on your hands and knees. I’m not sure what level I’m on, but the floorboards are creaking again and something snaps.

* * *

There you go! Not a bad start for a bit of raw, rough, stream of conscious type scribbling. It shows a little bit of promise. Book idea? Short story? Flash fiction? Who knows! The most probable thing going on here is I was scraping the cobwebs from the inside of my creative brain to kickstart it again, to get some ideas going. Learning how to write again.

Or maybe I was planning something.

It’s such a shame I didn’t fill those empty pages. It could have led to something productive and soul-filling. But the words already written in there, did lead to something. It definitely was not soul-filling or productive. My snitching journal told me so. Here’s what it told me:

* * *

19 May 2018

I drank. I did 233 days. Was I sitting on my laurels after all? Thinking I was invincible? As of the 14th May, I’m now six days sober. Back to the drawing board. Back to rehab.

The only way I can describe it is that my head went into hell-mode, then I fell through the floorboards into Hell’s basement. Everything went black and went into chaos! But are they all excuses. Probably. When it comes down to it – I drank! Simple.

It started last Wednesday and went on until Sunday. On the Monday I woke up with every intention of carrying on drinking. But something clicked in my head and I got myself to the rehab where I was welcomed with open arms. It was hell, but at least I was in a safe place with safe people. They are letting me attend every day. I can’t write much more yet. Hopefully I’ll be here (in the journal) later. My head’s an absolute mess. But one positive – six days sober now. Rehab again tomorrow.

* * *

There you go! That was my second relapse (or lapse, as it were). It has never happened again. I hope it never will. It was the first time I had ever stopped myself. Usually, it was because I’d run out of money, my job was on the line, or some friends had swooped in. But I had never stopped myself before. It was a first. God knows where I would be now if I hadn’t.

So, I was writing completely sober in the notebook on Wednesday, February 28th 2018. I fell off the wagon on Wednesday, May 9th 2018. Just over two months gap in-between. My notebook and my journal seem to agree; the floorboards were very much creaking, and through them I fell.

And yes, it was all my fault, there were no excuses. Thankfully, the lapse only went on for four days. I had enough recovery tools in my head to stop myself and have the sense get back to rehab again.

If only I had carried on writing in those notebook pages. Maybe I could have worked things through in my head by continuing with something productive. Writing was one of the weapons I could always shoot the screaming demons down with, and carry on. Instead, after reading those words again and again, it looks as if I was planning my downfall. I mention rock-bottom three times but there are no positives to offset them. And . . . There are two ways to vacate your room – in a body bag or on your hands and knees. I’m not sure what level I’m on, but the floorboards are creaking again and something snaps. There’s a lot of self-fulfilling prophecy in there, which doesn’t help matters when you’re newly sober. Thankfully the body bag option didn’t happen. I probably frightened myself, writing words that were revealing too much of what was going on inside. No doubt I didn’t want to carry on confronting myself in black and white, not wanting to admit I was planning my own downfall.

Eventually I got back on track again: volunteer, part-time recovery worker, full-time recovery worker, learning support assistant. Not long after that lapse, I began this blog; that really helped. I read, I write, I listen to music, I do some art – I live.

It was interesting going to the 2018 part of my journal and seeing what was going on, and how it tied into that notebook. What if I went back to 2005? Now that would be interesting. That would be me, documenting my full-blown alcoholism in real-time. Maybe that could be something I could share snippets of here bit by bit? Maybe. Who knows.

Again, I often wonder what would have happened if I would have carried on writing in that old notebook.

Well. There are actually fewer blank pages now. Why? Because I’ve begun writing in it again. Novels, short stories, non-fiction, etc? Well, anything goes. I won’t stress, because as we know, it’s not that important. It really isn’t. The only thing I’ll be confronting, working out and planning this time – is my writing.

I hope you all had a great and safe Christmas. I also hope 2025 is kind to you all.

Take care everyone x

My Year of Rest and Relaxation, by Ottessa Moshfegh

Amazingly, considering all the chaos and sadness that has happened here over the last 12 months, My Year of Rest and Relaxation is the 30th book I’ve managed to read this year. I might just sneak one more in before 2025 if I possibly can. I’m working on a post for next week so I thought I’d share this wonderful book by an author I’d never read before.

By the way. WordPress has just sent me a happy anniversary notification telling me I did my first ever post here, 6 years today! Time flies and all that. Anyway . . .

First published in 2018, this book was (and deservedly still is) an incredible global success.

Stubbornly I didn’t buy it at the time because everyone was all over it (and I was also probably furiously attempting to begin blogging in WordPress for the first time). Also, I hated the original cover with a passion. But things change, just like life, taste, underwear, and book covers.

It’s the year 2000. Our unnamed narrator is blessed with the physical DNA of the gods: young, impossibly beautiful and adored by men and women alike. She’s intelligent, street-wise, smart, and lives in her expensive apartment in Manhattan. Everything is paid for by the inheritance from her dead parents. She has everything a human could possibly desire, apart from happiness. She wants out. She wants to sleep.

She decides to opt out of the everyday facade of life – the mindless chatter of Smalltalk, the fake veneer of the rich and wannabe rich, the dating, the bad sex, the good sex, the inconvenient deaths, and shitty lives of everyone around her. She wants to pull the plug for a year, then she can reevaluate her life.

Enter the very off-kilter and shamanic quack, Dr Tuttle. She offers terrible medical advice but is willing to offer every drug under the sun for cash. Our narrator decides she will never find another ‘professional’ as irresponsible and weird as the drug-pushy Dr Tuttle, and sees her as the only hope to her year-long oblivion.

She loses her job at the art gallery because of all the naps taken in the utility cupboard. She leaves her crappy boss a ‘present’ like no other.

Pills are popped like toxic candy. Drifting in and out of consciousness, she watches VHS tapes of terrible films. She idolises Whoopi Goldberg. Her long-suffering friend, Reva is her only visitor. Bulimic, materialistic and stuck in a bad relationship, Reva babbles away about her terrible life. Although our narrator treats her like garbage, she is oddly soothed by her whining, sisterly presence.

Eventually, Dr Tuttle prescribes the drug Infermiterol, and the rest and Relaxation descends into a zombified, blackout chaos of not knowing what went on: the night, the day, or the week before. But eventually, the sleep finally comes.

If you took the murders out of Brett Easton Ellis’s American Psycho, you wouldn’t be a million miles away from the satirical nihilism of this book. The sarcasm, cruelty and the black humour are high here. Oddly, I found the last chapter quite heartbreaking.

Ottessa Moshfegh is an incredibly engaging and gifted writer. She renders her off-the-wall and unlikable characters beautifully on the page. Razor sharp and biting. Moshfegh does gallows humour exceptionally well (actually, she’s hilarious). Now I need to read more of her work. Highly recommended!