My birthday threw me off kilter for a week, but I’m back.  From mid-May I had planned to abstain from drinking until my birthday, I had a few lapses and assistance from other substances, but for the most part I had achieved a clarity in those two months, I had intended clarity, I had broken up with my Colombian girlfriend, started teaching English, waking up early, and facing my dreadful finances head on.  Then my birthday came and right when I got on the sauce I got on the sauce. It seemed I still had as high a tolerance as ever. Sipping tequila out of the bottle at 1pm in the Oaxacan sun wasn’t altogether intoxicating as it might sound but I felt the old distance return, the jelly film between me and the things I should enjoy.  I didn’t surf at all.  In my defense the waves were 20 ft and my lungs were suffering from Covid 2.0 and I had just surfed three weeks straight in Costa Rica.  But still, drinking again made me remember I don’t miss it.

I met some of the boys I had traveled with in Colombia months before.  The Brit got diarrhea and didn’t come out for my birthday which was ironic because I can’t count the amount of times he tried to make me come out for nothing on a Monday night.  The Dutch one disappeared but I didn’t care.  I think they I knew I didn’t care.  I was relieved they weren’t depending on me for happiness as before.  But the Indian came out with me and I stumbled home with a garbage bag woman at 6:30 a.m.  I refused to go home alone on my Birthday a month after my first break-up, but at what cost?

 I am teaching online, writing, running and living in Mexico City, taking advantage of the myriad of cafes in La Roma neighborhood.  I love Mexicans.  They are so kind and industrious.  The pharmacist always tries to upsell me and giggles when I call her out. The street vendor admires my handle on the local currency.  A lady grabs my arm to stop me on the side walk and ask where I am from.  I think in Medellin the paisas are nice enough but maybe just shy. They also live in a bubble and only understand their own jargon.  I love Medellin, but my heart is broken.

I am trying to take on the habits that I can, and not expect behavior beyond my personality.  I am self-medicating sure, but I plan on getting a legit therapist soon enough.  As long as I am not on the constant sauce, that booze is unsustainable.

 I could totally live here in La Roma if the girls were cuter.  I guess I only need one cute one.  I am living in a crusty old lodging house full of coughing old Mexicans and young fart sniffers, at least its not a junky den.  I didn’t realize a week ago I had a gigantic mansion to myself until I sat down on the cramped boarding-house toilet yesterday and remembered the marble floors and perfect bidets I had before.  Funny how I may as soon be in a mansion as a squalid abode.  Anyway, it keeps me out  of doors in the cafes on the street.