shorts log day 6

stardate random and unknowing,

Day six of this adventure begins with a choice of uniform: white, tan, or jeans shorts. Mondays are decidedly blue, but the blue ones were tight when I bought them and now, after several washings, are impossible to get into without fasting.

I opt for breakfast and the white ones, but these are a new pair, straight from the thrift store where they were languishing with the other wayward men's clothing. Of course, these have been washed, sterilized and sanctified as clean by the ship's steward, but who knows? The memory, like body memory, still remains in them, I think.

I found myself swerving down the halls this morning, stopping at the men's room to vomit -- twice. And I keep reaching for a flask in my lap drawer that isn't there -- the lap drawer or the flask.

I think back to the thrift store -- what pile did I get these from? And then, I remember, in one of those d'oh moments that are like a kick in the head. Both heads.

I got these shorts from the alcoholic, sold-my-shorts-for-booze pile. How could I forget those stains?