James is a failing writer and recovering addict who goes back to the Jersey shore. He has to battle his demons and find peace in his chaotic mind.


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Feel free to comment. I'm posting on here inorder to get feedback and see if it could be successful.

1. Sobriety

Personally sobriety makes me feel as though I let the Greats down like Kurt Cobain, Keith Richards, Jim Morrison, and all the other rolling stones that ever made art through substance abuse. Sure trying to get out of bed with no incentive of a fat line of blow or a little weed or even a goddamn Screwdriver is shitty, but losing your “edge” as an artist, well that’s worse than selling out. Hell, that is selling out.

    The rejection letters piled up; no one wanted my shitty scribbles. Eventually the drugs got the better of me and I lost my credit as a functional addict and became just an addict. My parents passed and I lost any other healthy relationships except one, Dave, who packed my shit and sent me to rehab. So,  I began collecting my chips and eventually was deemed a productive member of society. Upon my release, Dave was waiting for me with his car and a pack of cigarettes- Marlboro Reds. I took the pack and hugged him.

“Come-on compadre, let’s get you outta here.”

    “I’m driving,” and before Dave could protest, I dropped the top on his BMW, and floored it down the Garden State Parkway.

    “How’re you feeling?” he yelled over the wind.

    “In a word? Fan-fucking-tastic,” I said sarcastically. “Has the sunset always been this dull?”

    “It’s called sobriety James, and it’s meant to be dull. Life isn’t supposed to be balls to the wall all the time.”

    “Spoken like a true sheep.” I lit another cigarette with the old cigarette because using a lighter would be impossible with the top down.

    He pointed at the sign labeled ‘SEASIDE HEIGHTS.’ “Get off here.”

    “Fuck no, that place makes me want to do drugs or at the very least drink to excess.” Seaside is the black hole of my life, a real toilet bowl of fuck ups and mistakes. But the worst of it is Her.

    “Don't worry your livin’ with me and I’ll beat you with a newspaper if you lose it again or piss on the carpet.” Dave laughed and I road the exit down to Seaside.


Dave, a tall lanky box faced 22 year old, was a computer genius. He had his own business building websites which he does with a program that creates the website for him. He had written the code for the program back in college before I dropped out. It’s because of that program that he has his own two level loft on the shore and does whatever the fuck he feels like.

The loft had a rustic appeal to it, almost industrial, which made it seem not cold, but definitely sharp or jagged. His bed was upstairs so he gave me a mattress downstairs next to a window which overlooked the beach.

While I was doing group therapy sessions, Dave had gone to my old apartment in Eatontown which my landlord kicked me out of after I set my kitchen on fire during a binge. He brought back my essentials- my laptop, my box of old writings, and my guitar. I was going through my shit when Dave walked down the stairs. He looked at me with a sympathetic smile.

“Look, I know it’s going to be hard and I’m sorry I’m all you got, but we’ll get your life together,” he said.
    “Thank you.”

“Hey, maybe you’ll write something.” He smirked.

“Fuck you.” He knew full well that substance abuse was my muse. Dave then gave me my wallet which I had also left at the apartment.

“You have about five thousand dollars.”

“Wait, what?”

“I went through the whole apartment James. Paid all your bills, taxes, drug dealers- a lot of drug dealers James. After finding all your stashed cash and whatever was left in your account, you have five big ones left.”

I had a tendency to be bad with money, so when I was really fucked up I would hide stashes of cash so that I couldn't find it later when I was semi-sober.

“Don't spend it all!” Dave smacked my arm with the wallet before I took it. He then did something completely out of left field. He threw me his keys.

“The fuck? Are you trying to tell me something? Are you dying? Wait- am I dying?!”

“Shut up and take ‘em,” he laughed. “Use the car. I barely go out anyways and if I do I’ll just use Uber.”

“Did you think you were picking me up from the Marriott?” I was by no means protesting, just curious if he forgot that he picked me up from rehab.

“You’re gonna fuck up.” He said still smiling.

“The fuck?”

“I’m not going to chain you to a pipe and never let you out. You won't listen to anyone else but yourself anyway, so I’m letting you learn. Go in the world and fuck up. Just don't drown in the tide this time. I know you will figure it out, and worse comes to worse I’m here to help you James”

“I mean, thank you… I think.” I didn't know whether to be flattered that he ‘knows’ I'll get  my shit together or be annoyed or even depressed that he knows I’ll fuck up.

“Alright, well it’s late for me.”

It was only nine o'clock.

“I’m going to sleep. Go out and explore your old stomping ground.” He began walking up the stairs before he turned around. “She’s been asking about you, you know,”  and with that he was at the top of the loft heading for bed.

I stood there staring at the keys in my hand, the inner struggle between my two sides fighting against one another- the struggle to make the right choice. I couldn't decide between drinking at Bum Rogers or Spicys.

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