Santa Ana, 1968. A party full of lowlifes and mirror balls. Charlie C. stands in the corner judging the room until a can of malt liquor pulls the drapes open. For the first time, the torque of hating the human race while demanding their approval vanishes. He didn't drink to get out of the world; he drank to finally enter it.
He describes the wreckage of the intervening years as repainting a condemned house—using alcohol to cover rotted wood and termite-infested insides. He recounts the brutal cost: a father dying of cancer and a life spent accommodating a disease, like a surgeon moving healthy organs just to give a tumor a place to grow. After hitting a wall of "now what," Charlie found a Higher Power and a sponsor who treated him like a stubborn toddler. He moved from swatting imaginary gnats to a moment of grace while mopping floors, realizing he finally liked the people in the room.
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