Add exercising like a maniac between the wine and cigarettes + some dubious flinging of witch energy at both his dick and his mother, and yep, that's about what it looks like. Nostalgia tears, gut-punched lurches forward onto the floor, retaliatory bonfires, and damn good outfits when I'm rollin' okeydokey (a newly stress slim body and all). I look fabulous. And am about half psychologically dismantled.