I remember the day I realized I was an alcoholic like it was yesterday. I don’t know what’s more surprising, that it took me so long to discover my blossoming alcoholism or that I’ve been able to remember this conclusion after yesterday’s bout of heavy binge drinking. But it all hit me hard and fast, like the bright yellow school bus hit Regina George or like puberty hit Macaulay Culkin.
I had spent the morning watching a matinee showing of a quasi-interesting documentary on lizards and other desert Animalia. Rango it was called. It was narrated by Johnny Depp, which can mean one of two things: either Morgan Freeman was busy or the movie is awful, and anyone who’s seen Bruce Almighty knows that the first of those options can’t possibly be true. Anyways, Alcoholism punched me harder in the face than Mike Tyson’s tattoo artist. I was going through withdrawal after not having a single drink in a month, an embarrassing statement for any self-respecting individual who has been to an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting (true story, unfortunately). By then even prerecorded episodes of Judge Joe Brown couldn’t keep me distracted. I resorted to doing what I had always done when experiencing cold sweats or a headache: I made myself a drink.
There was only Amaretto left in the bar at my apartment, which is a great choice of drink for anyone with a cleft palette or a pair of bifocals. I poured myself a tall Judge Joe Brown coloured drink and watched the defendant explain his case on my favourite lowbrow network courtroom docu-drama. The defendant was on trial for not returning loaned money and his defense was primarily that if someone had the means to return loaned money, they wouldn’t have borrowed it in the first place. A sound argument indeed.
Somewhere between the time the chubby girl’s weave hit the floor and Joe Brown finally banging the gavel, I came to a realization: Alcoholism is really just a matter of perspective. As the hour hand approached the 4, it occurred to me that one person’s problem is another’s way of life. With the weekend right around the corner, a plethora of plastic cups in the cupboard and a few drunken 911 calls in Montreal’s immediate future, I came up with a few words of advice for all of those letting the alcohol bug get them down:
Try mixing with Red Bull.
