I have stopped drinking, for how long, I don’t know. But having that alcoholic gene passed down from my parents, those yield signs are flashing.
Dave Attell, a comic I love says, he drinks to quiet the voices. My father drank I’m pretty sure to stop thinking of my mother and her frequent dalliances with other men. My mother on the other hand drank dancing to her demons urging her to cheat while manning a cocktail shaker.
Hicks drank practically out of the womb finally stopping when sadly, it was too late, his body taking too bad a hit.
That’s the thing. One’s liver is very discreet holding it all in until it can’t anymore.
I guess I’m in the Dave Attell category thinking removing myself would quell all that troubles me. Well, I hate to be the one to break the news Dave, but those voices and troubles just taunt louder.
Anger, disappointment and self-pity bleats in Dolby Sound. There you are moaning like you’re playing Carmen, careening down the street. A concerned passerby approaches to see if they can help, so you go off on a rant unleashing ire no amount of vodka can restrain.
And the poor mes take on grand proportions as you weep and snivel, snot suddenly oozing onto your best silk blouse.
I’m not saying staying conscious comes pain free, it certainly doesn’t, but your mind is clearer, so whatever your next move is, it will be a saner one. When you’re drunk, however, everything reflects back like you’re facing a funhouse mirror.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m still moaning, but with more dignity and in the privacy of my own home. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss the sound of ice dropping into a fine crystal glass, but being sober makes it half full, more than half empty.
Let’s see how long it will last.
Cheers…for old times sake.