Member-only story
12-Step Recovery for MAGAs — Final Lush Years pg165
Colorful companion to my memoir The Incompetent Psychic
By 1993 my drinking had increased with no good excuse for it. Breaks between binges grew shorter. One night at the Union Hotel a band was playing a favorite song and people were dancing. I had always loved to dance at every opportunity, but something had shifted. A boozy fog thought suggested it was better to sit on the stool with my wine. I had a much worse thought, “I may never dance again. Oh well.” And my life shrunk even smaller. Then I stumbled across the street, polished off the brandy bottle in the kitchen and make it upstairs to pass out.
Heavy drinkers come up with hare-brained rules to create an illusion that things are manageable. One of my rules was tequila only in the summer and whiskey in the winter. I screed up and went on a Jose Cuervo bender one afternoon that December, so that was why I hit the couch face down early in the evening. It didn’t occur to me that quantity and not flavor was the likely reason. — From Chapter 8
What a coincidence this passage pops up the day after a mob of delusional crazies allowed themselves to be fomented to a frenzy of violence by a equally delusional mad man who has been spewing lies his entire life and then became president of the US.
