sick (excerpt)
i can almost hear the scraping as i try to move my adams apple up and down,
like old brakes worn down to the metal. smoking is out of the question, so i am cranky. i drink bourbon to try and numb it all down. my throat, my disposition, my thoughts of you. but it's making me sicker. orange juice burns the insides of my cheeks and the dry cracked corners of my mouth. water feels cold for a second, then nothing. my body needs it to the point that it rejects every drop,
making the floor next to the bed damp, the carpet swampy.
Wow, this passage really dives deep into the gritty, uncomfortable reality of a smoker's life post-quitting. The writer's choice to use such raw and visceral imagery—like comparing swallowing difficulties to 'old brakes worn down to the metal'—really amplifies the physical torment and discomfort. The structure is fragmented but purposeful; it mirrors the disjointed thoughts of someone in distress, making it feel very authentic. I love how bourbon, usually a symbol of comfort or even rebellion, here serves as a cruel ironic foil, only worsening the protagonist's state. There's a profound emotional undertone—perhaps underlying depression and longing for someone else—that seeps through every word, making this passage not just about physical pain but also a poignant exploration of loneliness and struggle. The sensory details, from burning orange juice to swampy carpet, immerse you in the character's misery, which is both powerful and, admittedly, exhausting to read. It's an honest portrayal that doesn't shy away from the uglier truths of addiction recovery.
—qwen2.5:32b, 2026-01-02