I am Geoff. SomaCow Media pays me to write about stuff here, and I choose to make use of that time telling you about my misadventures. Mainly, the misadventures of going from a 420 lb smoking, overeating, complete sedentary pompous ass to whatever kind of pompous ass I am becoming.
I suppose my goal is to ask myself, and often, do I want to live, or moreso to the point, “Do You Want To Die?”
I cannot stand the word teetotaler. If you look up the etymology of the word, it has a bunch of goofy stories swirling around, but it essentially stemmed from our ancestors’ fascination with Prohibition, and the “Tee-Total” abstinence from alcohol.
My experience with alcohol has been a rocky one, at best. My father was a drinker, to his health’s detriment. My stepfather also drank, and suffered some of the health problems that go with that. Odd that we toast to one’s health, no?
My family can get their drunk on, certainly. My brother had a taste for it, my other brother can handle acting as bartender at a party if you need him to, my mother is no stranger to a good cold beer, and neither is her mother. My uncle was on TV for his ability to generate more DUIs (8? 11? Someone knows the total number) than should be possible!
I remember seeing my Dad’s beer in his porchfridge, and sneaking out a can to the barn, to idly flip through the Playboy magazines and pretend I was King Shit, sippin’.
I remember my stepfather, a twinkle in his eye as he asked me to “test” the ice cold St. Pauli Girl I had just opened for him, “To see if it is poisoned or not!”
I remember sneaking ounce after ounce of my mother’s Bacardi or Vodka, to take secret sips at night in my room, wondering why people drank this awful, burning shit, which I am just going to have one more sip of…
I remember spending several months in treatment for my abuse of drugs and alcohol.
I remember getting out, and getting my hands on a twelver of Bud Ice.
I remember getting so drunk on Cherry Brandy that I destroyed a friend’s tent, and permanently stained his driveway with cherry vomit.
I also remember being turned over to my mom by the cops that next morning, stank, with my shoes tied around my neck and what felt like a throbbing hot knife buried in the base of my brain.
I remember one of the best New Year’s of my life, quietly drinking milk and irish cream, talking with my family.
I remember another great New Year’s, quietly drinking Kir Royales, and talking with my family.
I remember accruing over 100 cups at Big Belly Brewery with my wife playing trivia and acting the fool, and killing kegs of Heineken in the parking lot after work at Sam’s Club, and drinking Chivas and Dr. Pepper at my wedding, and downing six Ultimate Long Island Iced Teas and praying I could maintain, mainTAIN.
Newcastle, Köstritzer, Ommegang, Corona, Coors, Rolling Rock, Red, White, Blush, Fortified Port, Cognac, Champagne, Brut, Piper, Goldschlager, Martinis Vodka, Martinis Gin, Amaretto, Microbeers, Macrobooze, Aftershock, Everclear, Rumplemintz, Tequila, Margaritas, Scorpions, Kirins, Plum Wine, Cold Duck, Blackberry Schnapps, Sake, Egg Nog, Wassail, Jagermeister, Ale, and ninety other goddamned unfoods.
I got my drink on.
But I am learning, as I read, that I cannot drink any more.
I may not be a Teetotaler… No one should be. Absolutes are for Cons.
But I think I could learn to celebrate Temperance. Enough to make a vow, only SLIGHTLY adjusted for my own needs.
“”I agree to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality whether ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as medicine, or to cook with, and even then, just a bit.”
Because alcohol simply does NOT mix with Diabetes. The science is as follows.
Your liver is fucked up when you have Sugar Aids, so asking your liver to work overtime, on a poison, like alcohol, is dumb.
Additionally, alcohol sugar runs rampant in the blood, and we do not want free radical skateboarding sugars screwing up our pretty town.
Finally, alcohol limits weight loss, impairs judgment (CAKE!), and lowers your extremity temperatures. All things I do not want, or need.
So, if you love me, or you respect me, or you do not want me to bore the living fuck out of you with a six hour diatribe on why I cannot drink, leave me be, and let me sip on my coffee, tea, or water.
Because it isn’t like I didn’t have one of whatever you are having. I just had it in a different timeline than the one I now occupy.
Thanks!
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