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Wednesday, December 11, 2002

Sober day 12 and sore as all hell.


MOOD: emotionless, blank

BACKGROUND: Monty Python


Started working out again, like I did this last summer. Last night, during Raw, actually, I dusted off the black, menacing, thirty pould weights and the ab-roller and the thigh-master and did a good half hour, which is bad, actually, since in my prime of a few months ago I could go a good hour and a half of hardcore working out. Now, I could only do near a half before I just collapsed.


Hadto work out, though. Being sober, I never realized how much alcahol helped me sleep. And I just got sick of those sober nights where I'd be up for hours alone with just my thoughts, my dark, introspective thoughts about how Collyne broke my heart and how much I miss my fiance of a year ago and how much I hurt her, thoughts of my drinking days, how happier I was when I was drunk all the time, and how my last bender of (now) twelve days ago really scared the living s**t out of me.


So I started working out. And to make it all kosher, I stopped smoking three days ago.


So here I am, cold and sore and tired and depresssed and guilt-ridden and lonely in this foggy, rainy hell hole, and all of this without drinking and without smoking, me, Steve, piss ass poor and sober as all hell. And, knowing this, I am fully expecting myself to act like a big a**hole to everyone for quite some time.


Maybe that'll get me a chick like all those white, tattooed a**hole guys out there.

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