"I know. -- I mean, I know that. In my head, I know it, but I can't believe -- it's all I can think about, and I just -- there's something wrong with me." That's more than he intended to say but he can feel the encroaching knife-edge of panic and it's making him careless; he knows if he doesn't reel it in he's going to blurt out every thought currently stewing in his head and that will definitely make anyone think he is crazy -- irrational, paranoid, incoherent, out of touch with reality. He shuts up a moment, slumping back in his seat, and tries to breathe and calm down. It's fine, he's fine, he can handle this.

He stares at his beer without touching it, dead-eyed, and wishes again that it were stronger. Dimly he is aware that this is becoming a problem, his habit of using liquor as a crutch, and that he needs to cool it before he finds himself unable to stop, but. It's hard to turn down anything that offers any relief.