Not Drinking Will Kill You
Although it is infrequent, I do on occasion think to myself, “Maybe you should stop drinking for a little while.” Generally, these realizations occur during the mornings after excessive bouts of inebriation that make my fairly heroic regular intake seem like the paltry tippling of the average civilian who has a glass or two of wine with dinner. They insinuate themselves into my already foggy brain, which is straining to recall the events of the previous evening and trying to figure out why exactly those extra few glasses of bourbon seemed so acceptable, if not vital, at the time. As I cope with trembling hands and furrowed brow, sweat dripping down my back and the taste of whatever I imbibed still strong in my mouth, the small voices of sanity make their arguments as to why the damage I’m doing to my body needs to be given a brief respite. (The voices know better by this point than to suggest that I stop entirely; they have been reduced to requesting “a few days off.”) In my weaker moments, when I am particularly wracked with guilt and despair and I feel like there is something crawling on my skin and my eyes imagine they see things at the corners that are clearly not there, I even regard these entreaties with some sympathy. It might indeed be nice to spend a day without the numbing filter of alcohol, to experience the apparent clarity of which those without my deep dependency seem to make such productive use. But Science says if I do that I’m gonna die, so I guess it’s back to the bottle for me. Phew!
Photo by cuttlefish