Stefan B

“The perpetual cloud of alcohol wears momentarily thin, or perhaps it is just his survival instinct beating through. Either way, before leaving for the nearby bar he is struck with the realization that he hasn’t eaten for quite some time—hasn’t eaten substantially for even longer. Though he is not hungry, and though the very thought of solid food brings a clear and present rush of nausea to his gut, he knows that he must make a go of it, must try to eat something. If for no better reason than to extend his drinking base, to sustain the heart that pumps the blood that carries the alcohol to his brain, he seeks out nutrition.”
― John O'Brien, Leaving Las Vegas

“And I eat what I please. Geez, I weigh a hundred and sixty, but who cares? And Anne — I sing. Christ, I sing like a fucking canary.”
― Jacqueline Susann, Valley of the Dolls

“It dawns on him that he has crossed over the line that runs between maintaining alcoholic and sloppy, stupid, obnoxious drunk. But at least he is cognizant of it this time; he’ll try to ease off. “Oh, thank you, but I don’t think so. I’ll just finish my drink and go. I have to get up pretty early tomorrow,” she says. They get their drinks and both take long swallows. By now Ben is obscured from himself. He can no longer monitor his actions. He can’t edit himself. Later he will know, but right now he doesn’t, that this is not him. “I really wish that you’d come home with me,” he says, slurring and breaking his words. “Yourso cute, and I’m really good in bed… believe me… yousmell good too.” He stops and frowns. “No, okay,” he mutters into his glass. He swivels on his stool and his arms find the bar for support. She starts to speak and then doesn’t. Looking at him, she gets a look of great sadness in her eyes, sadness so intense that it goes beyond what her face has made you believe she could feel. Ben does not see it, but it is not wasted. It serves more purpose to her than it possibly could to him right now; she did not consciously author it, and she is surprised. “Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much,” she says. “I have to go. Thanks for the drink.” She gets up and walks quickly to the door. Her understatement seems to give him a spark. “Maybe I shouldn’t breathe so much, Teri!” he calls after her. “Ha! ha!” But she is gone. The bartender shakes his head and puts down the glass that he is washing. “Time to go, bud,” he says. “We’re closing up.”
― John O'Brien, Leaving Las Vegas

“At times like this he likes to think of his life as one big piece of performance art. Not structured enough to be an actual play, it is full of irrationality and minuscule details and can only be viewed from the inside out. Once. By him. If he doesn’t black out. He titles this episode: Pinching pennies and prostitutes—frugal fucking in LA.”
― John O'Brien, Leaving Las Vegas