1971. A gold metallic Camaro with a white Landau top rolls off the assembly line. Russell S. climbs in, smelling the new car scent and feeling like he’s driving through Yankee Stadium with the whole world watching. But the high lasts three blocks; the payments last thirty-six months. For Russell, the car was just another drug—a temporary cure for the "dis-ease" of alcoholism that strikes the moment the bottle is empty. He spent years chasing Playboy Bunnies and material prestige, trying to solve a spiritual void with vanity.
He describes the "drunk-a-logs" getting shorter as the years pass, replacing the noise of the wreckage with a gritty, head-on approach to adulthood. He warns that stopping the drink is just the tip of the iceberg; the real fight is abandoning the rational lies and the "finite self." By surrendering to a Higher Power, he moved from the alcoholic scrap heap to a place where even a cancer diagnosis can be viewed as a tool for closeness.
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