I’ve been reading some fantastic blog-flotsam the last day or two and a fair count happen to confess openly to using (and often abusing) alcohol. The adventures are varied and make for entertaining stories. These meager (for a second there, I almost used “humble” — ha ha) pages are not unfamiliar with the subject. It got me thinking about my Monday night, and more specifically, my Tuesday morning.
It was an I-didn’t-think-I’d-had-enough-to-cause-a-bad-hangover-let-alone-morning-puke kind of self-reflection. I never got hangovers in my twenties because I didn’t like to drink. I never had to think seriously about Alcoholism and whether any of Urban-America’s Normal, Self-Destructive Behavior had, in fact, become self-destructive. But now I find myself thinking about it sometimes. When the bartender gives you that stupidly over-long pour, is it love or hate? It’d be rude not to finish, but it’s still my fault, right? How many hangovers is it acceptable to have in a one-year period? Does the act of asking define approximately where one’s threshold is?
Music festival season will be upon us soon, filling weekends with endless bands and beer. I need to not hurt myself — too much shit to do.