Tonight was another one of those nights, a night filled with drinking enough so that I wouldn’t feel the pain anymore.   A night of poisoning myself to the point that I would not remember a single thing in the morning.   Why did I do this to myself over and over again?   I didn’t want to, and I always hated how I felt the morning after, yet I couldn’t help myself.   I suppose you could call it symptoms of a disease, or even a cry for help.   But that’s not how I saw it.             The world is a bleak place, one that is growing a shade darker each and every day.   Some days were worse than others, both on a personal scale and on a global one.   These were the days that I found myself at my favourite pub.   I never intend to drink as much as I do, but one turns into two and two turns into ten, then before I know it, I am back at my front door, fumbling through my pockets to find my keys, as I am now.             I’m a man of habit, I always have been.   Phone always