It was a quick stop at the proverbial pub, but the taps were mostly dry.
Last weekend was less than stellar, so I caved and drank some beer.
Verdict: it was fine?
Strange sensation having alcohol after almost half a year without touching a drop. At first I thought maybe my lack of enthusiasm was from the shitshow of a day, topped off with tiredness, beads of sweat, the sauce of defeat from society-at-large running my fortitude through the blender on purée, and of course sprinkles comprised of thin shreds of my patience and sanity. While that no doubt contributed I firmly believe there’s more to this than just a craptacular weekend, and the world being in a worse place than an ant sitting directly underneath an elephant’s butthole about two hours after eating.
I think I’m just over it.
Just like the old adage of one’s eyes being bigger than their stomach, the clichéd lesson this experience taught me; namely the novelty of wanting something was in fact greater than that thing itself, spoke loud and clear. In hindsight, none of this should’ve surprised me. I went through the same withdrawal when I stopped drinking soda, to the point where the handful of times I did made my cheeks cave faster than Elon’s Twitter deal. Post-beers I didn’t feel right, nor good, nor relaxed.
Was it the alcohol undergoing some strange chemical reaction with my cellular foulness?
Or was it the stinging pang of guilt rearing its ugly head like a festering pimple on my conscience?
I still have some Guinness that I’m going to toast and honour the memory of my dad with this Father’s Day. Regardless of my feelings afterward though, I’m think I’m calling this experiment a conclusive failure, and burning the laboratory notes.
And honestly, this is one failure I’m happy to live with.