Tuesday, August 16, 2011

I love Jesus but I drink a little.* Alone.

Once upon a time I had a complex about drinking alone.

What a sad thing to do, to sit by ones self and pour a glass of wine. It means you have no friends and why would you waste alcohol alone?

If only I could go back in time and pat my sweet little self on the head. How precious.

I have no such complex now. Or shame, which could mean one of two things: 1) I have arrived at a state of such deplorable loneliness that the only way to mask it is drinking a bottle of wine in my bed. Or 2) I've realized the medicinal purposes of alcohol.

pssst. It's #2.

It's not so much about getting drunk and being somebody as it is about sleeping. It's also a salve for frayed nerves, it removes gray hairs and elicits conversation that has nothing to do with deadlines, copy editing or assigning stories.

For the concerned among you, I don't drink alone every day and I don't drink for breakfast.

But hands off my gas station wine and burrito. That's what's for dinner.

*I didn't say it. Gladys did.