An Open Letter to My Liver
It’s 5am, and for the last time this week, I’ll watch the sun rise between the blinds. Pale blue, that moment you notice it’s going to be day time soon, when you have to decide between burying your consciousness under a layer of pillows and Tylenol, or sticking it out. This is the golden hour for insomniacs - just as unheard of to fall asleep as it is to stay awake, and with the first sound of birds, that pot of tea sounds just as appealing as a beer did the hour before. But I could just as easily crack another beer.
I wouldn’t say I’m drunk. Though, considering my track record as of late, that would certainly be the expectation. And, let’s be serious - just because I wouldn’t say it, doesn’t make it any less of a truth. I know you know, because you’re the one who’ll feel it in the morning, lagging, trying to wake up and process everything that’s happened since 5am the day before. At this point, it’s almost an expectation - an invitation, even, to prove (or disprove) your idea of me. I think at the very least I’m making an interesting impression.
You can tell that I don’t know where I’m going. I need to be honest with you now, liver, and tell you that it’s likely we’ll never know. I’m sticking it out though, and I just want to let you know that it would mean a lot to me if you wanted to stick it out along with me.