I fall limp into the tattered clutches of the lime green couch I picked up at the Salvation Army. A spring digs into my right thigh, and I welcome the pain. At least I can feel something.

A dim glow paints my tortured shadow on the wall as I change channels on the TV to some unheard beat. I get into a steady, dazed rhythm of pressing “channel upâ€? on the remote, interspersed with a random sigh. Wash, rinse, repeat.

The batteries give out when I reach some date hotline infomercial. “Call now to talk to awesome singles just like you,â€? the woman on the screen beckons. I’ve been down that road before. Defeated, I get up from the couch and punch the power button on the TV.

Standing in my living room, I waver a bit, back and forth; my head turns to the kitchen. A tiny smile invades my face as I see a half-empty bottle of Jack perched on the fridge. I force my legs to wander in that direction and pull the bottle down.

“I’m not really alone with you around.â€? I get no response from the bottle now kissing my lips.