I Drink Because I Am
Self imposed tests of mental fortitude have an utterly unwatchable quality. No speciality cable station would ever pick up coverage of 40 something single men trying their damnest not to pleasure themselves three times a week to mediocre internet porn and I’m as sure as I am not the subject of that last comparison that looking in on myself opening and closing the fridge three times an hour, trying not to grab that lonely bottle of Kronenbourg is interesting to no one. And, for the first January in recent memory, these tests have become so incredibly boring that I have forgone competing against my demons for the audience of my beige walls.
As much as I would like to believe that I have properly justified giving up the no-booze lent of ‘black January’ for the benefit of my oh so critical structural surroundings (listen, I was tired…it’s not like I meant to spill beer all over my lap to look like a pee-stain as I fell asleep watching the D-League as an homage to Al Bundy – just be glad you got a cheap laugh out of it – enjoying that new painting?), I can’t brush aside my deeper reasons for not putting myself through the strain this year. Walking out to grab a pitcher or two of beer in the early days of the month, I provided the reasoning for not challenging myself this time around to a compadre without the fervor of booze-removal flowing in his veins as, ‘I fail at too many things.’ The words of a champion.
A wonderful paragraph of self deprecation (not defecation – shitting oneself has no forum anywhere) could easily follow here. So many quips about lost potential, cynical self analysis and feigned belief in an ability to turn my life around are floating around my unattended hair, just begging to be thrown onto the keyboard. I will for once, ignore the temptation. I really do fail at too many things. Why put myself in a situation that I will most certainly fail in? Who will benefit from my abstinence of potent potables? Perhaps my liver. Atrophy though, is always a concern. I need to keep it in fighting shape.
As shallow as my reasoning appears, I can ask the same question of anyone. If it was an obvious as the disgustingness of Brian Skinner’s beard that you would disappoint yourself and fall flat on your face trying to complete a task, would you do it? Would I try to go a week without using the letter e just to prove how thesaurusly tough I am? No.
To leave without creating concern for my health and ability to properly dress myself and not smell like a urinal in the Bloor TTC station, it should be noted that in no way am I making the allusion to drinking being as unavoidable as the use of the letter ‘e.’ As much as the sauce is an important part of my ch’i, feeling like a failure at one more thing would most likely push me over the top of loser mountain and the backside of that snowy peak if full of sentences without the letter e resulting from over-consumption based slurring rather than a pointless challenge of ‘how much ya bench‘ between me and my will power. No on wants to s m lik that.
