Without booze I would have the sobriety to imagine a host of differences and instances and possibilities that are not only counter-productive, but frankly tiring. I will gladly sit here and take this squirt of neural chemicals versus dealing with a host of strangers any day of the week.

To be honest I'm glad Emily is gone. I wondered for awhile what my life would be like without the constant impositions. While generally pleasant, it wasn't as if I'd stumbled into a grotto of 'in love' and found myself dispersed upon its rocks and bamboo carvings. I enjoyed it. But, funny enough, I enjoy being by myself just as much--and it is less work, less hassle, and just less in general.

I enjoy alcohol because I get to feel nothing but willfully ignorant drug-induced happiness for at least a solid 4 hours a day. I publish more than most Ph.D.'s do in their whole graduate career in a few months time. I work my ass off at the gym. I keep up as active a social life as might be expected of anyone reaching the end of their schooling or training. I--in short--have done not an inconsequential amount of work every day.

I love alcohol.

I love how I can buy the same 6 pack of Satin Solstice from Central Waters and expect the same thing. I love how it lurks in my fridge or at any number of convenient liquor stores, grocery marts, or other food item venues. I love how every idiot worry and care and concern is instantly thrown into the toilet bowl and discharged for the day, only to percolate back like reverse-osmosis coffee with the grinds still around.

My tolerance and appreciation for humanity extends fairly far, but I would never give up my sacred yeasty vestments, my solace, my sole unrelenting comfort in a tirade of otherwise unstable situations, people, and related circumstances. If I could fuck and have progeny with alcohol, I would forswear my own species and content myself with spawning mutants.

I despise reality for the hollow comforts it brings. How uncivil, how unvested, how incoherent and meaningless. We are a generation of misers, of mendicant dearth-settlers, pawing at whatever inconsequential circumstance comes around the bend to offer something approximating a real human connection. I find no comfort in these actions.

I know two things: that my work consumes my life and myself simultaneously, and that alcohol will be there to offer a pillow against the hard concourse and indulge my delusion that somehow, in some case, there is comfort to be had from the storm that rages outside and threatens all windows to be broken in upon you.

God bless alcohol.

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