It doesn’t feel like it’s been years since my life spiraled out of control. After hitting rock-bottom, time becomes a blurred haze of moments, alternating between those with a highball in hand and those without. I used to have it all…now I can’t find my watch, and don’t know if I can stomach sifting through my own vomit to see if that’s what I just threw up.
There was a time when I had a wife and a child. Or two, it was possibly two children. Definitely at least one, and a wife. I couldn’t just be happy with that mildly-attractive, ever-fattening woman with a heart of gold. No no…I had to begin hanging at the Mexican fruit stands.
It wasn’t long until I was happily bouncing along through a powder habit, knee-deep in hookers for most of the day. I was a promising journalist, on the rise to mid-tier broadcast stardom. That life was swiftly replaced by tequila worm souffles and a desire for self-destruction that would become all-encompassing.
Where does an all-encompassing desire for self-destruction leave a wino/junkie journalist who has been deserted by everyone he may have once loved? The hedonistic septic tank known as The Haddock.
To be clear, I don’t want to be here. I don’t like these people, this organization, the building, or the quality of the on-site massage staff. Still amazed to this day that I’m still the lead anchor around here. My name is Bernard Floater: If someone cares to shoot me live on the air to make some sort of political statement, something along those lines can be arranged.