Life at the Bottom of the Bottle

In a singular moment of clarity, he admits the obvious:

"Do you realize you have a drinking problem?" she asks.

"Yes."

But that will be the only instance of self-awareness when he acknowledges Crown Royal as his emotional crutch.

Every other night sings a different melody--when he pounds that fourth glass of Jack Daniels, turns to her, and hatefully spits, "I'm sorry I'm not perfect like you"; when he finishes off the bottle of Maker's Mark while she isn't looking, and then proceeds to drive her home; when the Ketel One runs out and all he can manage is to pass out in a drunken coma while he's still inside of her.

The excuses flow as smoothly as the two bottles of red wine he blew through the night he was supposed to meet her family.  "I was tired.  I was stressed.  You pressured me."  It will always be her fault, because accepting responsibility for his actions would be like trying to switch from beer to water.    

It's to be hoped that his whiskey will hold him in bed, his vodka will kiss him goodnight, and his tequila will push him forward when life knocks him down.  He must sense a brilliant life waiting for him at the bottom of the bottle.