I’ve lately been trying to recollect just when it was that I started drinking myself to death. If I’d truly made an ambition out of it, I figure the starting point would be memorable; but then, I’d probably have been successful by now and it would be the end point that was more relevant and timely.
No, this was more of a sneak-up kind of a thing. And the tee-totaller’s line is nonsense and hypocrisy. Everybody’s got something, and this one is mine, and there’s nothing wrong with it until there is. When there is, you get a funny feeling that somebody somewhere pulled a trick on you, like a junk dealer telling you “the first taste is free”. I’ve only tricked myself. I get plenty of costly tastes for free, I suppose.
Now I feel like a child who’s convinced that if he just turns fast enough, he’ll catch his shadow doing something different. Nope. It’s all me, though some days the fog is heavy enough the shadow isn’t there. Or maybe I’m the shadow now, and it’s my sense of worth that’s gone missing. At night it doesn’t matter much anyway.
When did I need that drink? When did I declare it the best necessary accessory? Builder of confidence, diffuser of pain; lubricator of creativity, gatekeeper to God. Can a man complain when his partner has fulfilled every duty asked? Probably not. I’ll grin with the stoics, get through my day, and look forward to that fourth glass when things start looking up, or at least, start looking different.