Part Two

If you’ve ever blacked out in a 24h Denny’s, you’re likely familiar with the sticky taste of stale syrup glued to your incisors. You might even remember tracing your brittle teeth with your snow-white, coated cotton tongue. You wonder if the waitress across from you can smell the blend of Wild Turkey and stomach acid trickling its way, sharply, up your throat. Can liquid trickle upward? You didn’t think so, but this sensation can only be described as such.

The thing with blacking out in a 24h establishment is the astounding difficulty with which it can be to determine what time of day it is without stooping to the sordid, unfathomable level of getting someone else involved.

Quick aside for those of you who haven’t found yourself in this particular predicament: no, generally, you can’t just check your phone. At this point, it’s usually misplaced or dead (much like your dignity, but you’re not quite ready to accept that yet - give it a few years).

Cruising (stumbling) through the diner toward the door, you’ve impressed yourself - as you often do - with your unparalleled critical thinking skills. You’ll deduce the time of night (it’s always night) by evaluating the clientele of the establishment.

But your Holmes-esque investigative strategy is thwarted, almost to your delight, by the diversity of the 24h downtown Toronto Denny’s on Dundas. It turns out, spots like this cater to the less traditional diner; the unconventional kind, less concerned with the cuisine and more so focused on, well, a place to exist. You are just like the rest of them. An eery comfort sets in.

The anonymity offered by the city is conducive to the type of isolation addiction feeds off of.

It was 9pm the night I woke up in a Denny’s. Later, I learned I was dropped off there by a well-intentioned friend hoping to sober me up. I was late to my bartending gig I’d barely been holding onto a few blocks east from where I’d come to that night. A hop, skip, and a couple of shots later, and I was good as new. A quick complaint about the TTC was good enough a cover as any. I was behind the wood within the hour; flashing my dead-inside smile at men more bitter and disassociated than I was.

Einstein said that comparison is the thief of joy. Self-confessed egomaniac I am, I’ve chosen to alter that and make it a little bit more about me. I think that for the addict, comparison is the thief of acceptance.

Earlier today, I woke up late for my shift. Upon arriving at work, I realized I’d left the house without brushing my teeth. My mouth felt a familiar cottony coating. And if I’m honest with you, it completely ruined my day.

I am so grateful to have my day ruined by unattended morning breath.

Progress, not perfection.