The Devil in the Bottle

You know those Michelob Ultra commercials in which an attractive man and pretty woman compete in an athletic activity--swimming, rollerblading, running a flight of stairs, playing marbles and jacks--and then afterwards they share a couple of beers together and make goo-goo eyes at each other and the dangling preposition is that there may be some hanky-panky going on later between the attractive man and pretty woman? Have you seen them? If not, watch a sporting event. You'll be sure to catch them. And if not? Never you worry, dear reader--you'll be innundated with scores of other beer commercials spreading basically the same message: Consumers, drinking is cool and hip and you may get lucky if you try our product! So, give 'er a try!

[cricketschirp]

The flip-side of that equation, of course, is that one may get hooked on the stuff and gradually injest more and more until a twelve-pack is a night's-worth of beverages and, if one does go out on the town, one has absolutely no fucking chance of garnering a girlie because one is an obtuse asshole because one crossed the "8-Beer Line of Demarcation," before which one is witty and charming and after which one is a bumbling manic fool, with one thing on the mind: More beer!

Not that I'd know, or anything.

[cricketsrolleyes]

Alcohol abuse/Heavy drinking/alcoholism--whatever you want to call the situation--affects every strata of one's life. It affects one physically, mentally, spiritually, socially, legally, and financially.

I'm on the wagon again. The drinking of beer--I know, I know, such an innocuous beverage, far down on the malevolence list from, say, Jack Daniels or Absolut--has affected me in all of the ways that I listed above. And more, I'm sure.

Then why, after just four days of abstinence, am I drinking coffe and wishing it were a 40-ouncer of Colt 45? Do I want to be Billy Dee Williams? Do I like the taste of malt liquor? In a way, but not particularly. Why do I miss something that has caused me so much pain and suffering?

Gimme a "A"! Gimme a "D"! Gimme another "D"! Gimme an "I"! Gimme a "C"! Gimme a "T"! What's that spell?!

"ADDICT!" Gooo-ooooooh "ADDICT!"

But it's true. I've gone on the wagon before--many times, in fact--and it's always been the same: I miss the big ole gorilla on my back. I miss the time that he fills. I miss the buzz that he provides and I miss the hiatus from everyday life that he provides. I miss the 10-foot-tall and bulletproof me. When he's gone, it's like a tooth fell out and I keep poking my tongue around in my mouth, poking at the hole.

This is the time-frame of the wagon-ride: The first two or three days suck ass. I'm jittery as all hell and my brain chemistry works double-time to provide the happy chemicals that the gorilla had falsely provided. They fail miserably the first 48-72 hours and my sleep sucks and clouds of anxiety and depression hang over my head. The next seven days are great--I have a bounce back in my step and every day feels like a gift. The next two weeks fall into a daily routine of everyday life. The itch starts in about the fourth or fifth week and I feel my resolve begin to weaken. I can almost taste the beer on my tongue and I flip from beer commercials to, say, an infomercial on Tupperware--anything that won't tempt me. I give in to my internal-clamourings in the fifth or sixth week and I purchase a six-pack of good beer like Guiness or Serria Nevada Pale Ale or Blue Moon. Sometimes I only have three and stop. More often I have all six and crave a 40-ounce-chaser. And then, it's right back on the merry-go-round. Shooting like a rocket from six to 12 to more than 12 a night. Whee!

I've tried AA. Slightly. I'm not a fan of compartmentalized zealotry. I've taken a pill that will make me violently ill if I drink alcohol while taking said pill. That only works if I stay on it. I've tried outpatient and that works swimmingly while I'm doing it. I will not try inpatient--rehab--because even when I'm done with it, I'll be back in the same boat that I was in before--free will to imbibe or not. They won't tell me a damn thing that I don't know or haven't thought about or haven't heard about or haven't read about. So...no. No rehab assignments for yours truly. So....

So that's that. That's my Beer Story. That's my story of the Devil in the Bottle. I could go into much more graphic detail, but I shan't. Some things are not for Internet ears.

Look out the window. Do you see it? Do you see that dark massive shape, heavy throughout the shoulders and chest with a fearsome gargantuan maw atop? That's Gary the Gorilla. He's my friend...and my enemy. He's really not well-trained at all, yet he waits like a loyal pet patiently outside my window. Like a vampire, like a ghost, he waits patiently; he's in no rush. He knows that saddle is still on my back and the reins are still betwixt my teeth and the stirrups dangle still from my sides.

Happy holidays, everyone! Peace on Earth! Bring home the boys! One day at a time! Let go, let God! Um....

[cricketshandgorillabananatellhimtokeepquiet]