Sobering Up Drunk
Since the accident, I find that a lot of the time, it's not that I don't have the smarts, it's that I don't have good judgment. A lot of the time it's just best if I doze twenty hours straight or even fall asleep in the bath.
No, every day is like somewhat sobering up from a hardcore bender where some important decisions were made without much regard for future impact. I remember those drinking days. Or drinking weekends. Drinking weeks. But sometimes all it took was two bottles of champagne, drunk alone in my dorm room, for me to decide that that was the time to change all my passwords to anything computer-related to one easy-to-remember singular one. That's what we drunks call efficiency. And boredom. So presumably a respectable password would be chosen and that drunk would suddenly be working like the FBI. Bank accounts, social media, computer logins, all changed. The key would be if that productive little drunk also drunk wrote down the password or even a clue on a stickie note, like: "First pet's name + last four of social." Never a note. Never.
So every day now is like sobering up from last night's bender. I'm shocked sometimes at what I've accomplished, but the "how" and "why" are even more of a mystery. As usual, there's no stickie note explaining what yesterday was about, just like nearly twenty years ago. I seem to have never acquired that skill as a career drinker nor head injury patient.
I hadn't touched my computer yesterday, so I was a bit thrown to now suddenly be asked my PIN tonight. Who trusted me to choose a PIN in my condition then? Oh, me. Having no active memory of what numbers would have resonated two days ago, I nailed it on the second try, absolute blind luck.
I feel like I should really write this down, this new PIN, on a stickie note. That is, if I had one. Tomorrow's Mel, Present Mel, Mel of the Past, you are your own worst enemy.
No, every day is like somewhat sobering up from a hardcore bender where some important decisions were made without much regard for future impact. I remember those drinking days. Or drinking weekends. Drinking weeks. But sometimes all it took was two bottles of champagne, drunk alone in my dorm room, for me to decide that that was the time to change all my passwords to anything computer-related to one easy-to-remember singular one. That's what we drunks call efficiency. And boredom. So presumably a respectable password would be chosen and that drunk would suddenly be working like the FBI. Bank accounts, social media, computer logins, all changed. The key would be if that productive little drunk also drunk wrote down the password or even a clue on a stickie note, like: "First pet's name + last four of social." Never a note. Never.
So every day now is like sobering up from last night's bender. I'm shocked sometimes at what I've accomplished, but the "how" and "why" are even more of a mystery. As usual, there's no stickie note explaining what yesterday was about, just like nearly twenty years ago. I seem to have never acquired that skill as a career drinker nor head injury patient.
I hadn't touched my computer yesterday, so I was a bit thrown to now suddenly be asked my PIN tonight. Who trusted me to choose a PIN in my condition then? Oh, me. Having no active memory of what numbers would have resonated two days ago, I nailed it on the second try, absolute blind luck.
I feel like I should really write this down, this new PIN, on a stickie note. That is, if I had one. Tomorrow's Mel, Present Mel, Mel of the Past, you are your own worst enemy.
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