Like so many things in the world, my relationship with alcohol is one of love-hate.

"Moderation is the only virtue. The other so-called virtues are virtues only in so far as they are joined with moderation. To be overcourageous is to be foolhardy. To be overthrifty is to be parsimonious. To be overloving is to be doting. To be too unselfish is to weary the world with the spectacle of your martyrdom. Moderation is what counts." -Ogburn

A little alcohol is nice, fun, fine. It tastes good and calms. It makes difficult things easier because it numbs, and some times the brain can just get in the way. But then there are those times when you have something important. Something to do or something to say. And when timing is crucial, alcohol is Lucifer himself. You decide that now is the time because once and to be don't coun't anymore. So you say what you were going to say. And it is easy. But without the moderation, it becomes too easy. The moderation is what makes the impossible task into the difficult task. If the same task becomes simple, than it has lost all of it's decor and meaning. So what you say comes out and your tounge is honey forked, but with Bacardi and Beer behind your thoughts, instead of wisdom and wit, the words which should have been a stylus to push and mold your audience turn to a butter knife in inept hands.

You find an expected but wrenching response. And since the brain is on vacation, you take it perfectly in stride. You are unhurt, undimmed, and basically unaltered. This, though, only serves to trivialized your intentions even further. And the rest of the night seems to go without a hitch. But you will eventually wake up. And while you sleep you are cursed to dream. But when you wake up you are in a nightmare. And it is not truly that hard; but you have no good sleep and a hang-over. You have only enough energy to face the day, and it is the extra weight as much as the saddness that brings the tears. And the saddness comes from you. You are melancholoy from the answer you recieved, but you are morose from your own impatience and thoughtlessness. And adding the pressure to both of your lives is the killing blow.

Time heals all wounds, and youth heals all scars. But the experience is still bitter...