Ok, I don’t drink or do drugs anymore. But when I did, I liked to stay up late at night fantasizing that I was cool. From my euphoric, substance-induced state, I could convince myself that I knew all the coolest bands; movies, and people. And therefore, by association, I was cool. If my friends fell short of the mark, I dramatized the best parts of their lives to make them more interesting to others. It was fun.

My friend Josh, another active alcoholic; was part of a band that played the same bar in the Mission (San Francisco) from when it was cool until it wasn’t very cool; and then it got new owners and became cool again. A la James Murphy, he “was there”. (There usually being the floor of a men’s bathroom). Of course, to other people I said he was a “music genius” – I only hung out with geniuses, really – and claimed he had introduced me to Jimi Tenor, who I actually found by accident on Youtube.

Sergio, Fabian, and Dave lived in Lower Haight and would trade socially-acceptable Loser jobs amongst themselves, back and forth; such as American Apparel Stylist and Essential Oil Mixologist at Aveda.

They taped the fattest Sharpies they could find to the walls of their apartment, encouraging people to adorn their living space with unique streams of consciousness. Nothing says Home quite like walls with statements screaming “Why Are We Here!??”, ”I Am Not Afraid of Truth”, and “Death Before Honor”, which they made special care to point out due to a member of the String Cheese Incident having scrawled it several summers ago following an unfortunate brush with an angry fan.

Night after night, after even worse night, we would camp out at someone’s place over a few bottles of something, listening to the same pretentious music and talking about all the things we wanted to do but never would, like make an album, or learn Arabic, or start a blog.

None of this matters now. I have blocked all of them on Facebook. However, I am fascinated to recollect the fears running rampant in my life during that time; craftily disguised as nostalgia and creative ambition. It wasn’t enough to be there, at some “cool” person’s house; doing shots served on a record album from a chair shaped like a hand. I wanted to belong. And I never did.

Alcoholic friendships: So easy to make, so disappointing to maintain. It’s difficult to master loneliness in loud, crowded, rooms but most of us did. Maybe it wasn’t the best, but even if we tried, we couldn’t really pinpoint an alternative we’d trade it for.

What we, and most kids like us failed to realize is, Nobody Wakes Up Cool. Or a Success. Or Popular. Or Talented. All of these things — yes, ALL of them — are conceptualized and worked for. We kept waiting for something magic to happen; it never did. We wanted someone to recognize us; take notice of our gifts and our beauty, and transform us into something better. Everyone who mocked would be sorry. We’d win awards and conduct interviews. While we waited, others picked goals; which they tried, failed at, and tried again. Other people got better. We stayed the same.

Instead of changing our net value (or cool factor) as human beings, we decided to climb the shorter mountain: changing how cool people thought we were; which was far easier (especially given Sergio’s American Apparel discount). It could be accomplished in a much shorter period of time. We got drunk in the right places, told the right stories, and took the right Instagram photos.

If in my continued years of sobriety, I ever forget what a shitty and stupid existence this was, I pull out Jimi Tenor. I do it to remind myself what it felt like to be young, and full of alcohol-induced hopes and dreams. I held so tightly to the belief that what I KNEW would get me somewhere; that all those hours at Amoeba listening to records on my lunch break could be somehow cashed out for a better life vis a vis an interesting man, connection with a stranger, or soundtrack to the perfect film. But it never did. What I knew just made me more and more of what I already was – a very selfish person.

There may not be a prize for knowing who Jimi Tenor is. There is however, a definite one for suiting up and showing up; for working the 12 steps, and for getting sober: it’s having a fighting chance at finally DOING all the things you used to stay up late talking about. At three years sober I inch a little bit closer every day.

As for being cool and what other people are thinking about me; that stuff’s just none of my business.

**Note: All the names in this story have been changed.