Confessions of a Beer Drinker

I cannot help my attitude. It is love. I cannot live without, and apparently will not live long with.

Its not just beer. Its all of those alcoholic little faeries. They sit patiently on the shop shelves waiting for me to arrive. I look at their massed ranks and realise the simple truth. I want them all. I love their happy little colours, their sturdy bottles or cans, and they make me smile.

The truth is I am a user. I cannot hide this fact anymore. It is true that for a while I may be faithful to only one, but I am a hot blooded male. I live for the chase. I long for it. I have no preference. Blonde, brunette, white, or red they all have at some time in my past shared a wonderful experience. But then I move on. Each one no more than a one night stand. Each one just a bottled whore or a can of the Red Light district.

The problem has always been with me. I am a monster. A beast of insatiable thirst. If the world allowed it, and money was plentiful, I would drink all day. There is never enough, there is never just one. If drink was evil I would be a God. Iconic, armed with nothing but my beer goggles and slovenly stagger I would save the city, even the world. I can do anything. I will fight the hordes back, drive faster than any other, yet I will not move. I will sit with my mind on fire capturing flashes of life now gone pondering the possibilities I had.

No one understands or appreciates my fears. I am just a drunkard to most, an addict to others, social to all. Anything for a drop of the good stuff is what they think of me. I know it is in their mind, for the words a chiseled in the creases on their faces. They smile and carry on. I am not a burden in small doses. I am the jolly friend that will soon be gone. I alleviate their woes, offer a shoulder or a place to sleep, but they do not see my confusion.

Everyone believes they have the answer. Stop drinking, find a hobby, work harder, longer, later. They believe the pain to be self inflicted, but the special few know I have no emotional sadness. That is not it. That is not it at all. But everyone is an expert, and everyone can explain their last 'heavy' session or night which ended in vomit. I try to explain that I enjoy my liquid friends and not to worry. But people do. They see it as a blight on what could have been a successful and powerful career. No one wants to accept I might be happy. So the words of opinion continue. Opinions that were never asked for.

I am alone for the moment. The remnants of home brewed projects are now depleted. I sit with a mug of tea. My mind champs at the bit because I know what this evening brings. Eight wenches sit forlorn in my fridge waiting for my audience. Together we shall share a night in front of the TV or perhaps the computer, but we will be together. It will be a happy harmony and the world will again vanish behind closed doors.