Sad Hour

Well, not “sad” per se, but if Happy Hour = booze then I’m gonna guess that watching someone else consume V & T’s whilst I nursed some O’Doul’s (regular, not even the Amber, gasp!) is a little more towards the less happy end of the spectrum.

I requested said H/S Hour though to catch up with a pal, so it’s my own doing. And… ugh. Also my own doing that I chose to put a wee bit o’ money into the devil machines after my companion had to dash off.

Fail.

I am, in fact, regretful about this turn of events. I only stuck around as long as it took me to finish my faux beer, which did not equate to a huge loss, but still, a lapse… Funny, it never once occurred to me *not* to post it here. What on earth would be the point of documenting all of this if I didn’t include my failings?

Thing is, I knew even before I walked into that bar that there is zero chance I will drink before this month is up. That is not even a question anymore. Yeah, I’m a little pissed at myself that I gambled. More than that though, I’m shocked by the turn this is all taking in my head. Conversation with myself two nights ago around midnight:

Me: “I really sorta like this. I, uh… might want to keep it up…”

Me: “What the hell is WRONG with you?!”

We were both very confused.

I wrote my own contract for a month of not drinking and possibly making my friends uncomfortable in my presence by default. Perhaps naively, I did not realize that buried in the language was a clause compelling me to engage in self-discovery.

I like this. I also like drinking. There is a compromise in there somewhere and I’ve got ten days to figure out exactly what it looks like.

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