This blog certainly is trending towards alcoholism lately. Just hear me out on this one though.

Volatile. Jealous. Erratic. Unpredictable. Showing up to your job demanding why you haven’t responded. I’m allll about it. I love that shit. You know what I mean?

Hey, it’s me, Dry January. The one you pledged abstinence to. Look, I know you had honest intentions. I heard you when you vowed to make up for drinking every day last year simply because time had no meaning. I saw you make your sincere pledge to take the month off after nine months of “I probably shouldn’t, but whatever, we’re in a pandemic.” I believe you thought you could do it.

But seriously, are you kidding me?

I have spent a considerable amount of time at bars for the past few months. This has been the result of 1) me being quite bullish on espresso martinis, in search of the perfect concoction, 2) bars being fun, and 3) not really wanting to go home.

During that span, while drinking martinis that were phenomenal, staying at bars that were fun, and more or less avoiding home life, I stumbled across one particularly intoxicating drink: Ouzo.

Here’s the thing, though: Ouzo Toasts were fun until they weren’t.

If you know me, you know I’m not much of a cheap alcohol connoisseur. I used to be, back when a good time was more of a priority than making a living. I remember browsing the aisles of a liquor store in New Orleans during a 2011 road trip with friends. I had probably $200 to my name, and here I was doing cost analysis on Four Loko’s v Smirnoff. (And I’m talking OG Four Loko. The one’s that took out teenagers left and right, and were quickly outlawed.)

I remember talking to friends about drinking before any of us had even turned 21. We were going to be drinking nice beer and alcohol. The good stuff. Well, here I was, in NOLA at a liquor store at 21 years old sticking to only bottles on the bottom shelf. Life moves fast.

I remember the exact moment it happened. There was a distinctive pop that rattled throughout my body. At first I was confused. I couldn’t stand upright. I remember pain shooting down my leg. What the fuck happened?

I know I’m signaling that I want to leave. I’m inching closer towards the door. I put my coat on 20 minutes ago. I keep checking my watch. I keep saying, “Damn, that’s crazy.” I deny your offers for another beer. I’m sorry. I love you all, but I very much want to leave.

Here, a few excuses I’ve used over the years.

So, you’ve found yourself inside of a museum, eh? Really didn’t think the girl who agreed to the second date would recommend coming here, huh? Or are you on a class trip and maybe a little baked, and you don’t want to make it obvious? Maybe your friends wanted to go since it’s free this month and you don’t want to be exposed as the classless swine you are? It’s all good, I got you.

Here’s your handy guide to museum etiquette. No longer a simpleton, you are now classy, sophisticated, refined. Just like me! Stick to this and you’ll be fooling those art-loving shitbags in no time.

Honestly, the best part is the end. “Oh my god, it’s in.”

Halloween parties are starting tonight. 4 straight days of debauchery are only a few hours away. What’s your strategy this year? Going with the one outfit for the entire weekend, hoping it doesn’t get too stained or torn? Gross. Maybe you have a couple different costumes that you’ll rotate throughout the weekend? Sounds like a waste of money. More money for bar tabs, less money on shitty fabrics hastily sewn together by Bangladeshi children. You know? What I mean?

Thanks for going on my first run with me. Just wondering, are my feet supposed to feel like I’m smashing them into a pit of burning coals?

Yeah? Cool. Because I’m getting a lot of that right now.

Well, folks, it’s been a complete shit show last few weeks. Traveling the state only to get a little too drunk at corporate events, on-a-whim, YOLO-style trips, one too many espresso martinis at speakeasies, going off the grid for entire weekends without warning, long bouts of depression and anxiety. Goes without saying that #SoberOctober and my sleep schedule have both been absolute disasters.

I have a well-documented history of bad decisions. Actually, now that I think about it, “bad decisions” doesn’t emphasize this enough. Lack of insight is maybe a better way of putting it. Or, no, I got it, I got it: Being a fucking idiot. Yep, that’s it. Being a fucking idiot. That’s how I would phrase it: I have a well-documented history of being a fucking idiot.

Dude I don’t get football. I can’t “draft.” I don’t “Madden.” What the fuck do you mean “let’s tailgate?”

About a month ago, when Chicago’s mask mandate was reinstated, I received an email from the bar I work at on weekends. The owner, who I can only assume gets his news updates exclusively from Fox News, was convinced that the city was hell-bent on “writing citations with hefty fines to collect revenue and grab headlines away from carjackings, murders and mayhem.”

I gasped and then took a long pull of my Sauvignon Blanc. I mean, I know things are looking rough out there. I’ve even noticed a few THE END IS NEAR! signs being held on street corners while strolling downtown. But now this was getting out of hand. “Holy shit,” I mouthed to myself, “This world really is going to hell.” And just as I was beginning to get worked up, I could hear The Bachelorette come on in the other room.

Dear People Who Say Summer Isn’t Over Yet,

Shut the fuck up.

Yes, I — a complete stranger on the internet — deliberately took your money in exchange for floor seats to a ZZ Top concert. Yes, those very same floor seats that were neither realistically priced nor ever actually in my possession. Now, instead of perseverating on the money you lost and riffs you won’t hear, consider what you do own: an opportunity to grow wiser.

I OFFICIALLY GIVE UP. For the past few years, I have spent far too much time and money doing things that I thought made me cool. I began working from cafés, looking like I didn’t want to be disturbed. I developed the terrible habit of ordering PBRs at bars even though they taste terrible. I’ve purchased several (several) overpriced t-shirts from various designers because GQ recommended that I do so. I went paleo.

However, at the end of all of these escapades, I have come to a single conclusion: I’m really tired. I’m folding, or whatever it is they say when they give up in poker, which I’ve never really made the effort to learn. Does folding mean quitting?

Love you, mom! But the last year and a half really reminded me of what it was like growing up under your rules!