Date: Sunday, 2024-09-15, 9:04 AM | Message # 1
(((Alcoholics Anonymous Club)))
Hello! My name is Vitya, do you remember me? Howl... huh?
After our meetings, I am afraid to be alone with the bottle. That's why I drink it.
And on the second day, I called a friend to drive away the fear. We drank together.
**Title: Vitya's Chronicles: A Fizzling Journey Through AA**
The bright neon sign flickered above the door of the local Alcoholics Anonymous Club. Vitya adjusted his glasses nervously, staring at it as if it were an otherworldly portal. “Hello! My name is Vitya,” he muttered to himself. “Do you remember me? I’ve only been here for—what? Two weeks?”
Inside, the room was buzzing with the sounds of laughter and camaraderie. People sat huddled in circles, sharing their stories, dispensing advice, and on occasion, playing charades with their pasts. The place seemed more like a community center for quirky friendships than a refuge for recovering alcoholics.
“Vitya!” one of the members called out, waving him over. It was Boris, a grumpy man with a heart of gold and a perpetual scowl that didn’t quite scare anyone. “Come on! Join us! We were just talking about your last episode with the… uh… what was it?” He paused theatrically, as everyone turned to him expectantly.
“Vodka-infused gummy bears,” Vitya said sheepishly. The memory washed over him like a wave, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “They are not as great as they sound.”
The group erupted in laughter. An obstacle became a light-hearted admission, and a beer belly of nerves began to deflate. Vitya felt warmth spread through his cheeks, feeling lighter. The camaraderie was infectious, but it was tough—especially when your past chased after you like a hyperactive dog in a park full of squirrels.
Later that evening, after the meeting wrapped up, Vitya stood at the door, his mind swirling with both inspiration and terror. “I can do this,” he told himself. But then came the chill down the spine.
A bottle mocked him from the corner of his tiny apartment—a beautifully crafted glass of whiskey he called “Old Rebound.” “You don’t want to be alone, do you?” it whispered (or maybe that was just Vitya’s overactive imagination).
In a moment of sheer impulse, he pulled out his phone and called up Dima, his partner-in-sips from the old days. “Dima!” he exclaimed when his friend picked up, the energy sparking through the line. “Let’s hang out! I feel… um… liberated!”
“Hey, buddy! You sure you’re ready for that? Isn’t it AA night?” Dima’s voice dripped with concern and perhaps a hint of mischief.
“It’s just one drink! Come on!” Vitya argued with the kind of logic that only seemed to make sense at 7 PM on a Thursday.
An hour later, they were slouched on Vitya’s couch, each with a drink in hand, the world spinning softly around them. They laughed, recalling old times as easily as one might recall a favorite childhood cartoon. Just then, the conversation swerved dramatically.
“Remember that time we tried to outdrink that guy at the bar?” Dima said, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks. “What was his name? Oh yeah—‘Iron Jaw Ivan.’”
“Sure do!” Vitya grinned, the memory gushing forth like water from a broken dam. “We lost! I woke up next to a stuffed bear named ‘Fluffy’ the next day. How did we even end up in your mother’s basement?”
“And Fluffy certainly did not approve of our drinking prowess,” Dima wheezed, sending them both into a laughing fit that reverberated off the walls.
But as the second round of drinks flowed, Vitya’s laughter felt more like a dance with a tiger. The ancient dance of ‘One More’ had begun to revive old habits.
“Let’s take a shot!” Dima cheered, holding up his glass. Vitya eyed it nervously, the creeping anxiety swirling back into his gut. He remembered the AI meeting, the support, the hope. Nevertheless, the cheers of “To Fluffy!” drowned his internal voice out.
“Okay!” Vitya yelled, succumbing to the euphoria.
Seconds later, the world tilted. They danced ridiculous dances, mocked terrible pop songs, and fell into another laughing spiral. Morning came with a dull thud. Eyes open to behold the chaos—a crumpled pizza box sat on the table; Fluffy was inexplicably wearing a pair of Vitya’s sunglasses.
With a groan, he sat up. “Ugh, what have we done?”
Dima snored, blissfully unaware of the crimes they had committed against sobriety. Vitya scratched his head, the weight of remorse draping over him like a heavy quilt.
Vitya stood, wobbling slightly, but instead of reaching for the bottle again, he walked over to his phone. He scrolled until he found the familiar name: Boris. “If you’re there,” he texted, “I might need some help.”
An instant ping echoed back: “Always. I’ll bring the gummy bears! Just don’t mix them!”
Vitya chuckled, sitting back down. Maybe there was hope after all—even if it danced awkwardly at times.
And with that, he embraced the lesson learned: laughter could taste like anything, even the bittersweet pinch of responsibility. That night they fell off the wagon, they still could climb back up—fueled not just by drinks but by friends who’d stand by each other through the haze of life.
Hello! My name is Vitya, do you remember me? Howl... huh?
After our meetings, I am afraid to be alone with the bottle. That's why I drink it.
And on the second day, I called a friend to drive away the fear. We drank together.
**Title: Vitya's Chronicles: A Fizzling Journey Through AA**
The bright neon sign flickered above the door of the local Alcoholics Anonymous Club. Vitya adjusted his glasses nervously, staring at it as if it were an otherworldly portal. “Hello! My name is Vitya,” he muttered to himself. “Do you remember me? I’ve only been here for—what? Two weeks?”
Inside, the room was buzzing with the sounds of laughter and camaraderie. People sat huddled in circles, sharing their stories, dispensing advice, and on occasion, playing charades with their pasts. The place seemed more like a community center for quirky friendships than a refuge for recovering alcoholics.
“Vitya!” one of the members called out, waving him over. It was Boris, a grumpy man with a heart of gold and a perpetual scowl that didn’t quite scare anyone. “Come on! Join us! We were just talking about your last episode with the… uh… what was it?” He paused theatrically, as everyone turned to him expectantly.
“Vodka-infused gummy bears,” Vitya said sheepishly. The memory washed over him like a wave, and he couldn’t help but chuckle. “They are not as great as they sound.”
The group erupted in laughter. An obstacle became a light-hearted admission, and a beer belly of nerves began to deflate. Vitya felt warmth spread through his cheeks, feeling lighter. The camaraderie was infectious, but it was tough—especially when your past chased after you like a hyperactive dog in a park full of squirrels.
Later that evening, after the meeting wrapped up, Vitya stood at the door, his mind swirling with both inspiration and terror. “I can do this,” he told himself. But then came the chill down the spine.
A bottle mocked him from the corner of his tiny apartment—a beautifully crafted glass of whiskey he called “Old Rebound.” “You don’t want to be alone, do you?” it whispered (or maybe that was just Vitya’s overactive imagination).
In a moment of sheer impulse, he pulled out his phone and called up Dima, his partner-in-sips from the old days. “Dima!” he exclaimed when his friend picked up, the energy sparking through the line. “Let’s hang out! I feel… um… liberated!”
“Hey, buddy! You sure you’re ready for that? Isn’t it AA night?” Dima’s voice dripped with concern and perhaps a hint of mischief.
“It’s just one drink! Come on!” Vitya argued with the kind of logic that only seemed to make sense at 7 PM on a Thursday.
An hour later, they were slouched on Vitya’s couch, each with a drink in hand, the world spinning softly around them. They laughed, recalling old times as easily as one might recall a favorite childhood cartoon. Just then, the conversation swerved dramatically.
“Remember that time we tried to outdrink that guy at the bar?” Dima said, tears of laughter rolling down his cheeks. “What was his name? Oh yeah—‘Iron Jaw Ivan.’”
“Sure do!” Vitya grinned, the memory gushing forth like water from a broken dam. “We lost! I woke up next to a stuffed bear named ‘Fluffy’ the next day. How did we even end up in your mother’s basement?”
“And Fluffy certainly did not approve of our drinking prowess,” Dima wheezed, sending them both into a laughing fit that reverberated off the walls.
But as the second round of drinks flowed, Vitya’s laughter felt more like a dance with a tiger. The ancient dance of ‘One More’ had begun to revive old habits.
“Let’s take a shot!” Dima cheered, holding up his glass. Vitya eyed it nervously, the creeping anxiety swirling back into his gut. He remembered the AI meeting, the support, the hope. Nevertheless, the cheers of “To Fluffy!” drowned his internal voice out.
“Okay!” Vitya yelled, succumbing to the euphoria.
Seconds later, the world tilted. They danced ridiculous dances, mocked terrible pop songs, and fell into another laughing spiral. Morning came with a dull thud. Eyes open to behold the chaos—a crumpled pizza box sat on the table; Fluffy was inexplicably wearing a pair of Vitya’s sunglasses.
With a groan, he sat up. “Ugh, what have we done?”
Dima snored, blissfully unaware of the crimes they had committed against sobriety. Vitya scratched his head, the weight of remorse draping over him like a heavy quilt.
Vitya stood, wobbling slightly, but instead of reaching for the bottle again, he walked over to his phone. He scrolled until he found the familiar name: Boris. “If you’re there,” he texted, “I might need some help.”
An instant ping echoed back: “Always. I’ll bring the gummy bears! Just don’t mix them!”
Vitya chuckled, sitting back down. Maybe there was hope after all—even if it danced awkwardly at times.
And with that, he embraced the lesson learned: laughter could taste like anything, even the bittersweet pinch of responsibility. That night they fell off the wagon, they still could climb back up—fueled not just by drinks but by friends who’d stand by each other through the haze of life.
