One hundred and thirteen days since my last sip.
And it only took me one day to finally jump ship.
No matter how long I'm sober, nor how much I drink.
Will ever allow me the clarity to see the way that you think.
So here's to relapse, and the misery inbound.
Because girl I'll never stop you from runnin' around.

Ninety-two days, since my last drink.
The first week I was stranded.
Lost in a desert, parched.

The coldest, freshest water was dust in my mouth.
I couldn't quench my thirst.
Nothing brought that refreshing sensation;
That overwhelming elation that my first beer had each day.

Whenever I took my first sip, I felt enlightened.
My soul beemed with joy.
Nothing else mattered after that first sip.
All the word was irrelevant compared to me and my drink.

And that was the problem.
It was all irrelevant.
Beer was my partner.
Scotch was my lover.
Brandy, my best friend.

And I, was an alcoholic.
I AM, an acoholic.
Ninety-two days into recovery.
Ninety-two days into the rest of my life.

Light and the sun it's from,
both burn my eyes in the morning.

As I wait for the day to pass,
I can't quite seem to grasp
the inevitable truths
of time slipping by.
Leaving me behind.
Leaving us all in dust.

God is the way sunlight bends through an empty shot glass,
throwing cascading fractures on the solemn bar top.
God is the skin I crawl in
and peel away by two layers at a time
above the ****-filled blisters left
by that same old sun
on happy afternoons.

God is a drunk
and doesn't give a ****
about what
I think he is.