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I am an alcoholic.
Yes, it’s true;
I’m not ashamed of being one; as a matter of fact, I embrace it. Liquor could be considered one of my passions. While
that may seem odd, it does to me what sports, significant others, and friends do for other people; it gives them support.
I suppose it’s silly to think of alcohol as being supportive, but it’s always there, waiting for me in the refrigerator,
always full of its special, liquid brand of understanding; it never questions me, it simply tells me that everything’s
alright and that I’ll make it. An average person would call me an addict; they’re wrong. Yeah, sure, I went to
Alcoholics Anonymous, but when you’re there, you feel as if you’re in a prison; none of the cellmates listen,
none of the therapists and "guards" listen…it’s just you. That long-necked bottle or the silver, aluminum can
never compelled me to spill my guts to some psycho with a clipboard and two-inch glasses, or even to a run-of-the-mill hobo
that happened to stumble inside. That is why I live alone. I was once married to a lovely woman; her name was Patricia. Together
we brought two children, Daniel and Margaret, into our world of cars and cash.And there was the beer. Patricia always complained
about the beer; I’d wonder if there was an off switch somewhere on her skull sometimes. It seemed like all she cared
about was the beer; she’d harp on about the risks that it would have for the children and for her career. As Daniel
and Margaret grew, she persuaded them to join them in her so-named "fight against the tyranny of home-based alcoholism." Eventually,
on a hot summer day in June, two weeks after Daniel and Margaret left for summer vacation in Miami, Patricia and I were divorced.
The kids knew nothing about it until they returned. So, the years went by slowly; most of my time elapsed in an old, navy-blue
armchair, a remote in one hand and my first love, the beer, in another hand. Patricia and I corresponded through letters,
though she often accused me of "writing while intoxicated," as if it was a federal crime. I learned that Daniel left for Germany
or some far-off country and Margaret was being supported by Patricia until she found a good-paying job; I guess she didn’t
go to college. The last letter I received from them, seven years ago, said that Patricia had met some guy in a Wal-Mart and
things were getting serious. I haven’t received any letter from my family since. So, my winters were quiet; it was just
me and the beer, still in that chair, watching whatever crappy Christmas specials the broadcast networks would throw at us.
I’d maybe leave and do some shopping for myself, or even buy a small present for the pretty girl at the office. Otherwise,
I was in that chair. But, there was the one winter, about a year ago…
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