There was one shot left in the bottle. I’d told myself that this was it, this last bottle, my last drink. I had to give up drinking. All the woes in my life always started off with ‘a little drink.’ Always planning on one, never, ever stopping at one.
My father told me I was becoming an alcoholic. I knew I wasn’t of course. I just tended to party a little too hardy. I’m young, that’s what you do, right? Yeah, I’d lost a couple girlfriends over it, we would have parted anyway, neither of them were ‘the one.’ The job thing was not really my fault, and I got another, better job fairly quickly.
But it was weighing on my mind that I couldn’t seem to feel comfortable unless I had a bottle nearby. The last time I bought any, after having a few, I bought six bottles. When I woke up the next day and saw them I thought, this is enough. I was not an alcoholic.
Right then and there I decided that when those six bottles were done, I was done. Sure I could drink when I was out, but no more in the house. Now this was the last bottle, and there was only one shot left.
I opened the bottle and poured it out. There was a dead fly in the glass, now there was a dead fly in my drink. Disgusting. How blatantly ironic. And what’s worse, I drank it anyway, fly and all.
That’s when I joined AA.