Just replace the druggie. It’s been done before!
My brother died from alcohol abuse. The fact that Brooks is so reckless is concerning. I hope he finds help in the rehab center.
He’s a disgrace to music. Millions would kill to have his life, and he just threw it away.
Piece of shit celebrity. Just another tale of fame going to a person’s head.
This is like his fifth time in rehab. Maybe it’s time to start realizing nothing’s going to change.
He’ll be dead by thirty, just like all the other ‘late and great’ drug addict performers.
I reached out for more whiskey as the words became engraved in my mind. There were supportive comments, too, but for some reason those felt like lies. Why is it that negative comments from strangers seem to hurt you the most?
“I think you had enough,” the bartender said sternly, a gentle undertone to his speech as he moved the bottle of whiskey farther from my reach. He had a silver, thick mustache filled with secrets, lies, and potato chip crumbs. Whenever he spoke, the mustache danced above his upper lip, and his words fell from the left corner of his mouth. Long, curly gray hair sat on his head, which he wore pulled back into a bun. An old man bun. The guy had to be over seventy, and he somehow seemed to be effortlessly cool, calm, and collected.
The complete opposite of me.
Each morning and night, I lied to Maggie when I messaged her back.
I shut my eyes and tried my best to recall the bartender’s name, which he’d told me hundreds of times during my state of drunkenness.
Kurt rhymes with hurt.
Lately Kurt was the closest thing I had to a friend. I remembered the first time I met him, two weeks ago when I walked into his bar. I’d been a mess for the past two weeks. The first time he met me, my shoulders were rounded as I sat. My arms were crossed and my forehead met my forearms where I proceeded to try to stop my memories in the corner booth of his empty bar. He didn’t ask me questions. He simply brought me a bottle of whiskey and a glass of ice that night—and the following evenings to come.
“One more,” I muttered, but he frowned and shook his head.
“It’s one in morning, buddy. Don’t you think you should get home, maybe?”
“Home?” I huffed, reaching for the bottle, which he refused to give to me. I looked up into his blue eyes and felt a tug at my heart. Home. “Please?” I begged. Begged—I begged him for alcohol. How pathetic. “Please, Kurt?”
“Bert,” he corrected, a grimaced smile.
Dammit.
Kurt rhymes with hurt, which rhymes with Bert, which is his name.
“That’s what I said.”
“Not what you said. Probably what you meant, though.”
“Yeah, that’s what I meant, Bert. Bert. Bert.” How many times could I say his name before I forgot it again?
He sat across from me in the booth and played with the handlebars of his mustache. “What are you drinking to forget?” he asked.
I swallowed hard and said no words.
“That bad, huh?”
I didn’t reply, but I pushed my empty glass in his direction. When I went into the grocery store earlier that day, my face was plastered on magazine covers, speaking of a mental breakdown I hadn’t known I was having. Also, it turned out I was addicted to heroin, and I stormed out of The Crooks due to my addiction.
Then, I made the mistake of signing online and read more things about me. It baffled me how many of my fans fed into the lies.
So, it was easier for me to stay drunk.
Bert pushed my glass back toward me.
“Dick move,” I muttered.