Writing 'Burning Wichita' Makes me Drink

I finish the story. I grab the rum. I take one, two, three, four, five--pulls from the bottle. I stare at the screen. Using a backdrop that's heavily autobiographical and then killing people close to you through fiction is a misery machine. Rachel came over. Then Zach. Then Jessica. My life seems to be seeping into suburban formaldehyde. I only hang out with couples. I seemingly can no longer be myself. I have to put on this painted grin and pseudo-optimism to keep everyone comfortable. One day away. One day away from hitting the drink with fervor and hopefully putting this shitfest on its funeral pyre.