Rock bottom? Don't talk about rock bottom until you're wrist-deep in a canister of Betty Crocker frosting at three in the morning, your mouth covered in cookie crumbs, your shirt stained with pepsi and canned gravy.
You shuffle through the layer of Little Debbie wrappers and fast food garbage over to the fridge to see if you have an unmolested can of Reddi-Whip to suckle, but no, not even that small comfort is there.
Given the state you're in right now, it probably wouldn't have mattered anyway. Fuck it, there's peanut butter. All the spoons are dirty again, but that's what fingers are for.
You shove great gobs of the stuff into your maw, not tasting, just a consumption machine, letting it pack into your mouth and ooze salty-sweet down your throat.
Climb back over the mounds of dirty laundry and used plates to the clear spot on the couch, and find something to watch on the TV. No matter how hard you scrub your hands on your sweatpants, you can't get the gunk out from under your fingernails.
Commercials flood the screen as you swig from the two liter you keep next to your feet, and your eyes glaze over as the sugar hits your system and you sink further into the cushions; the hole in you that widens this time every year silenced for now, waiting for its next moment to scream black sadness into your being. Where did you go wrong?