An Old Friend...

A decade ago I swore off Tequila.

It's the devil.

I married a girl because of it.

That said, a dear friend brought a bottle to my house a few weeks back, — a bottle which I promptly lost, because it was one of those nights—, anyway, I discovered it hidden up in the eaves of the addition we've been slowly putting up on our shoe-string budget.

It is beautiful. There's a clarity of mind that shots of straight Tequila possesses that I used to associate with Jack Daniels. But Jack has become an old, worn out, annoying sort of friend who brings nothing to the table but misery. Jose on the other hand has brought something special tonight.

You know, I've often spoken about how drinking lets one touch the Devine. You have a few and "poof!" you are communing with God.

The problem is that alchohol is a deceptive mistress. As are most mistresses, but that's a subject for another post. You drink a bit, and you are suddenly God-like, ethereal, in the Garden with all of the tame, happy, non-meat eating animals. And Alchohol whispers: " if you've drunk half the bottle and feel this good, you'll feel twice as good if you drink the rest."

Bitch.

So you drink the rest, and you end up falling all over yourself and trying to explain to your spouse that you "really, really, loooovadflakdflakdsjf 'love' them"... then you pause to pee or puke... and come in and start over again... and if they're understanding they let you do this, and quietly sort of hug you, — at arms length—, until you pass out. And in the morning they start to bitch at you, but realize in your booze-fueled frenzy you managed to do the dishes, the kids long-division homework, and set-up the coffee machine for the next day, and they leave you alone.

The problem with booze is this: a few drinks, and you craddle the face of the Creator in your hand. A few dozen more, and the ugliness that is man burbles to the surface and you are left alone, out of control, and wallowing in your own filth.

Well tonight I am at that point where I shall be wallowing in my own filthy, unworthy, and incontrollable anxiety and despair. But I'll post this before tossing back another shot of the glorious gold liquid and sitting down to watch Keiffer Sutherland torture Arabic sounding American actors on the national past-time now known as "24."