I used to think my vice was bourbon. It turns out it’s people.
Not friends. Not lovers. Sources.
A journalist’s high doesn’t come from publication; it comes from the whisper before publication. The text that begins, “You didn’t hear this from me…”
That line hits harder than nicotine.
I refresh encrypted apps like other people refresh stock tickers. I measure my worth by who trusts me with secrets. That’s the addiction—not truth, but proximity to it.
It’s intoxicating. Which is why it pairs so well with actual intoxication.
Last week I drank three Sex on the Beach cocktails before 5 p.m., telling myself it was “research ambience.” Peach schnapps, vodka, cranberry—something about it feels like Florida in denial.
My sources say I’m brilliant. My liver says otherwise.