There I was drinking well whiskey at a seedy airport motel that wasn't even my own.

Big Al had dropped me off at the Airport Sheridan. Burned by the married Russian 25 year old, the 45 year old bar floozy and the 27 year old Harley saleswoman; my night was not looking well. I ate salted snacks that burned chapped lips as I drank Sam Adams at a linoleum and oak bar. My cell phone angled away from me but never more than a text away. Snow flurried outside yet my brown cashmere sweater kept me warm enough or maybe it was the alcohol; nonetheless, I am warm enough to not notice or young enough not to care. The newspaper says this is Cleveland, Ohio but this could be Anywhere, America. Laid off steel workers and welders huddle around TVs and halogen lights surround me as I drink to forget, ignore, but mostly wish things were different.

A sign reminds patrons, "the beverages consumed here must be purchased here." I am run by my addictions: woman, alcohol, and drugs; I the slave and they are my master. I want only what I cannot have like a child angry when a discarded toy is used by a peer. To want what you cannot have; to probe what you cannot understand is my curse, my struggle in life. Canadian whiskey burns down my throat like smoke in your lungs and I think about how actions yell louder than the whisper of words.

I am a glutton for punishment; a sadist for pain. Hangnails tear at my fingertips and I think of a man today who spoke as he descended down steps towards the men's room, "If if weren't for drinking, I'd never get any exercise."

I feel that way about love...I'll never be happy and only seek pain.