Beer, Guns, Aliens and Sadness
rating: +11+x

"Hi. I'm Michael, I'm 28 years old and I'm an alcoholic."

"Hello Michael."

When someone told me that these meetings were exactly like in the movies, I prayed to God for that to be a lie. There I was, sitting in a folding steel chair, arms crossed, stone faced, listening to stories I did not care about and telling stories they did not care about. An hour and a half: a dead dog, a gone friend, a job lost, all the generic shit you would expect to hear. Don't get me wrong, mine were exactly the same, but still, whenever they opened their mouths I couldn't help but roll my eyes. Food was decent, though, but it was free after all. I didn't remember their names, they didn't remember mine, and then I left.

I walked down the street, passed by giant glass buildings, shitty wooden houses and stupid little stores until I finally entered the bar I call a home. Of course, I didn't live in the bar, but in the apartment right above the place. Although it was where I used to spend most of my time, so I guess it can be considered part of my home.

I hanged my coat on the doorknob of my room, grabbed a glass of water, sat on my torn bed and turned on the TV. Don't know what I was expecting, though. It was only the same old massacres, lies and bragging I couldn't stand to watch. I drank the water, took off my pants and rested my head on the stained pillow.

Then I woke up. I stood up, put on the same old clothes I always wore, drank more water and went to another meeting.

Hi. I'm Michael, I'm 28 years old, and I lost my job.

When that asshole said I was "too unstable and easily irritated to work in a cooperative environment", I couldn't help but punch him right in the face. Of course, I apologized right after, and being as patient as he was, he let me go with only a warning on my records. Those small sentences were enough to prevent me from getting any good job in the future, but it was better than having to go to jail or paying a fee.

Sam wasn't happy. Slapped me in the face, but I was already used to it. I messed up frequently, so I guess I didn't mind it that much. Guess what? I should have minded it that time.

Hi. I'm Michael, I'm 28 years old, and my girlfriend left me.

Of course she did. For a while I started helping the owner of the bar with some minor chores, like cleaning glasses, but that wasn't nearly enough. I got tired of it pretty quickly, and she got tired of me. Left without a word and I still don't know where she went.

I felt sad, I felt guilty and I felt lonely. I punched the wall, I kicked the table and I screamed at the mirror. But she didn't come back.

And then I started drinking. I mean, I drank before, I drank a lot, but from that moment forward it really became a problem.

Hi. I'm Michael, I'm 28 years old, and I'm sorry, dad.

Things were bad. When I told them about everything I lost, they just hung up the phone. I called again, no answer. I texted, they didn't read it. I cried, they didn't care.

Time passed by, I got worse, the few friends I had left started to go away, to move on. But I stayed the same, and at some point, I guess it pissed me off. I was trying to find some way of income when I saw the flyer, and then I started coming to the meetings.

Of course, when things started to get slightly better, God laughed, and told me to fuck off.

Hi. I'm Michael, I'm 28 years old, and I should have gone to the farm.

"What the fuck?" I asked in disbelief, watching a news channel talk about a lost episode of Doctor Who or something as if it was real. Of course it was real.

When the first Scar opened up, I did nothing. I saw those things attacking farms and small villages, but I still did nothing. I saw the army start locking up the city, but I still did nothing. And when it finally hit me, it was too late.

My family is dead. Yes, my whole family. They all lived in that stupid farm, after all. At first, I thought about my dad's arsenal, about all the kinds of guns he had there and how good he was at using them. I thought they would be fine. But then I turned on the TV again. And then I lost hope. Kept calling, though, but they still didn't answer.

The arsenal thing, it's funny, you know. I don't have pictures of them, jewelry, toys, nothing. Nothing but a gun. The only thing I have to remind me of my family is a fucking gun. And I don't even know how to use it.

Hi. I'm Michael, I'm 28 years old, and what's the point?

When things got really bad, they knocked on my door. I opened it, they gave me instructions, and then they left. Never used the food coupon, never claimed the blanket, never attended to the enlisting booth. And they never came back. A year passed, I drank nothing but water everyday, I was able to get a job as a cashier down the street, I kept coming to the meetings, and I survived.

But still, they are out there, and every time I turned on that fucking TV I saw the same thing. Thousands of them, crawling from the ground, running and slicing people alive. We shoot back, but they just keep coming. We lost Detroit, we lost Miami, Seattle is in ruins, and all of that in the last month. And still, I kept attending to the meetings.

One day, the bullets will end. One day, the tanks will break. One day, the planes will crash. And when that day comes, I will ask: what's the point? Better yet: what was the point? When that first little piece of shit came from that hellhole, we laughed, and we moved on with our lives. Nothing really changed, even if it should have. We built walls and closed our eyes, but the problem was still there. The problem is still there.

What's the fucking point?

Why am I here?

Everyday I tell you all the story of my life, the same story, and everyday you answer me with the same thing. Nothing changed. So what was the point?

Maybe I will just grab that gun and end it all before those things do it.

"When, Michael?"


"When was the last time you consumed alcoholic beverages?"

"March of last year."

"And how do you feel about that?"

"I feel… good. I feel happy."

"So that's your answer, Michael. That was the point. You stablished an objective and you worked hard to accomplish it. Now you are here, victorious."

"How much do they pay you, lady?"

"Enough to make me forget about the problems outside the walls."

And I kept coming to the meetings.

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