Lush for Life (Salon): The morning after my first office holiday party, I woke up in a dog bed in someone else’s house. This was surprising to everyone involved, but perhaps most poignantly, the dog.

My Relapse Years (Salon): The shame of saying one thing and doing another is a dark and bitter brew. I had lost faith in myself and any promises I made whatsoever. I would lay down rules at 7:30 a.m. and dismantle them by lunch. It was meaningless, play-pretend, like depositing an envelope of very generous checks into my account, each of them written on cocktail napkins.

How Did I Get Home Last Night? (Salon): The first 10 seconds of a hungover Sunday morning were a checklist of panic: Did I remember how I got home? Was anyone lying beside me? Did I have any cuts or bruises? I woke to strange data sets. Orange juice on the counter, refrigerator door flapping open. My vibrator tossed on the living room couch. Once I woke up with a half-eaten corn dog in my hand and a smear of mustard across my face. But I was starving, so I ate it.

I Used to Think Non-Drinkers Were Buzzkills, Then I Sobered Up (originally appeared in Cosmo): There was a time when the highest compliment I could give a woman was “I want to drink with you.” I loved the ritual of liquid bonding, how you could walk into a bar as awkward strangers and stumble out with purple teeth and a new BFF. Every once in a while, I met a woman who didn’t like alcohol, and it was like a crackle of thunder on a clear day. What do you mean you don’t drink?

Are You An Alcoholic? (BuzzFeed): I kept wondering about my drinking, as my bar bills grew steeper — Patron instead of Jose Cuervo — and my taste more refined. I continued to build the case that my drinking was normal, totally normal. See that guy over there? He’s at the bar every night. At least I’m not that bad. I had a good job, I never crashed my car. And yet, I was stuck.