“I don’t miss drinking,” he continued. “But I do miss having a crutch. At first, I’d look at sober people like, damn, y’all really out here feeling everything?”
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nostalgic for it before it had even ended
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“You burst into
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my solitude, demanding to be seen. You were overwhelming. Just wild and weird and brilliant, and I never had a choice. I liked everything about you. Even the scary parts. I wanted to drown in your fucking bathwater.”
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“I’m not just writing about you,” said Shane. “I’m writing to you.”
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There’s an alternate universe where I never left, he thought.
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They were labeled by feeling: COMA (Valium), CHILL (weed), PARTY (cocaine), LSATS (Adderall), WHORE (ecstasy), NUMB (Percocet), and so on.
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I put the ‘hug’ in ‘thug
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“Don’t fight. Write.”
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They both had their twisted compulsions, different corners of the same hell.