Alcohol Diaries [Entry No. 1]


It is now 1:45 PM on a Friday, and I’m not drinking. That is a good thing.


I’ve been doing it a lot recently — drinking, that is. Whether that lies in favor of quantity or consistency, I’m not certain, I just know I’d be better off doing it less.

There is a history of alcoholism in my family, among a number of other undesirable genetic quirks. Fingers crossed for whoever ends up marrying me…and that that statement only applies to one woman.

My place in life of late has lent to indulgence, because I’ve been floating to a degree. Stagnation leads to inactivity, inactivity leads to boredom, and boredom leads to drinking, smoking, et.al.

One drink usually means two for me, and at that point, there is a choice I am forced to make. It could be tequila, whiskey, gin or wine, but the choice remains the same — should I have a third?

The answer is invariably and definitively: no; but I am weaker on some days than others, sadder, too. Every drink just makes you, me, lonelier, though. That’s not an attempt to invoke pity, but rather, an attempt to look myself in the eye and cut the shit. We’ll see how that pans out.


It is now 1:50 PM on a Friday, and I’m craving a martini.


I don’t think I have a drinking problem — genuinely, I don’t…at least not yet. But it goes without saying how many people have uttered those famous last words. I have a good relationship with words, though. They tend to forgive me more than most.

Someone who used to mean something to me once made a comment that meant something; she told me I might [have a drinking problem]. To be fair, I was in the habit of contacting her exclusively under the influence of alcohol, so it was not a wild claim coming from her. It shook me, nevertheless.

Four and some odd years have seen me leaning on the liquid crutch more than has been healthy, but not necessarily more than has been necessary. Whiskey has gotten me through many a long night, wine through many a slow afternoon, and tequila, well, I won’t go into detail.

I’m writing this to you because it holds me accountable, and may prevent an actual problem from developing. I did the same thing with cigarettes, and it worked, to an extent. So I figured I’d roll those dice once more.


It just dawned on me that my parents will likely read this. Sorry, guys, but I promise this is a good thing.


I have extraordinary friends who are in the habit of being brutally honest with me, so when I’ve asked them if I should be worried, and they say I shouldn’t, I really do believe them. Still, I’m going to keep an eye on myself, because it has to be done. If you know me, or are in my life, then I hope you do, too.

As of this week, I am 25 years old. It doesn’t bother me — probably because I still feel nineteen — but I figure it’s something to be aware of. I am stronger now than I’ve ever been, but not yet strong enough. I should be more disciplined, more patient and empathic. I should be better, and so I will, eventually.


But for now, it is 2:15 PM on a Friday, and I fancy a drink.


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