How My Alcoholism Has Kept Me On Track

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Nice Move

Mid-dip chug. TFM.

I didn’t start out an alcoholic. It was a steep mountain to climb to get to the summit on which I now stand. Along the way, there have been pits and peaks, valleys and vistas, but the distinct trend has been upward. Alcohol has been a reliable friend and advisor that I’ve been able to lean on through thick and thin. There are several notable ways it’s helped me keep (and lose) my footing.

It helps me maintain a schedule.

I adhere to a strict regimen of waking up, doing things other than drinking (nursing a hangover), and then, at 5 on the dot (2:30), I drink till I forget about those things. Furthermore, I have to get to the liquor store before 9, and the gas station before midnight — a task not easily accomplished when you’re already boozy.

It helps me budget.

Unless you live in Georgia, home of the 50 rack, alcohol isn’t all that cheap. And when you consume more of it than you do any other substance, it forces you to plan your spending accordingly. I usually separate my budget into three sections:

1. Shit to get me drunk (whiskey, beer, vodka enemas, etc.)

2. Shit I buy when drunk (fast food, cigs, Dick Van Dyke’s Greatest Hits, etc.)

3. Shit to cure a hangover (whiskey, beer, vodka enemas, etc.)

It’s effective birth control.

When you’re so drunk that your dick resembles a wet cigarette, you don’t even need to worry about whether or not she’s on the pill. Chances are, your wet cigarette is not gonna get lit. Besides, think of all the money you’re saving on Plan B. That shit gets expensive.

I’m closer to my community.

Speaking of Plan B, I’ve never been closer to my pharmacist. And he’s just the first person I thought of. My bartender knows me by name, as does my school’s disciplinary committee, almost all of the county judges, and most police officers.

I boost people’s confidence.

I’ve never banged more fives than I have after a solid schedule of day drinking, rallying, pregaming, and hitting the bars. Fat chicks know me by name, and I know them by their thigh claps. I’m singlehandedly dousing negative female body images in booze and nut butter. And it’s not just the ladies whose confidence I bolster. When I shotgun beers in broad daylight and loudly voice my degenerate opinions (on anal) in public, it’s blindingly apparent how shit-faced I am.

And when people know just how shit-faced I am, they are glad they have their shit together.


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