Beer is an inferior intoxicant

It's been too long since I've written anything. Pardon me while yank some malformed, misshapen thoughts out of my head:

I'm so bored with beer. It's just lost all its promise and mystery for me. To examine the reasons, I start with the mystery:

I must acknowledge the zero-sum game inherent in its intoxicating effects. Every evening (or early afternoon, as it happens) the decision to imbibe is necessarily accompanied in a mature person by another decision, that of sacrificing the following morning's sense of wellness for the revelry of today. While that has a certain fatalist, write-a-bad-check appeal to it, I am sick of the bargain. I am coming to realize that the sensation of waking up with internal organs that are well-rested and pumping out essential juices and chemicals in their appropriate amounts is a valuable thing indeed. I don't wanna get all "ABC After School Special" on you, but it's almost a "high" in itself. The loss of that near-euphoria is deceptively undetectable, like a slow erosion, but it's real. Maybe it's just my age and my historical affinity for the "research" on this subject that have taken their toll, but the more I comprehend that value, the more I am overcome with buyer's remorse.

On to the promise: that implication that I might have more fun with a few belts in me. Certainly, I'm a jolly ass for a while, but the loss of the senses and logical thought robs me of something whose use I miss more and more lately. Some people can drink and enjoy reading, playing music or other mentally proactive pursuits, but I don't find myself among them. Since I rarely get outright sloshed anymore, I find that there are few tasks I cannot perform after having my fill of lager, but do I enjoy those activities? I really don't.

Add to that the fact that I tend to get cranky and impatient between drying out and hitting the sack, and as you may imagine, the balance of the day is much less fun.

So, scratch fun, as well as my own experiences in the matter. I'm not swearing off beer altogether, but clearly, I've turned my own little corner. But is beer inferior?

A little objective thought will reveal that anything you can cook up in your bathtub or a prison toilet is suspect, whether it's gin, brandy or beer. In my mind, it compels comparisons to methamphetamine and other homemade drugs, and it's not a flattering comparison. Granted, Heineken and the Glenlivet warrant some form of exemption in this analysis, if only because they bring a lot more to the "enjoyment" side of the equation. They are quality products, and deserve to be set apart from the cheap shit with which I've been poisoning myself in for years. Unfortunately, the downside effects are equally deleterious, if not worse.

All this begs to lead to comparisons to other choices of intoxicants, alternative versions of mental bubble gum. Certainly, it's not an exercise to leapfrog past that and wonder why not just abstain, and leave your poor brain alone? Surely it has enough to contend with absent all these chemical disruptions and distractions.

That's a worthwhile question, too.

Monday morning

This morning is an albatross, wobbling and honking during a laughably ungainly takeoff.

I haven't had my usual, good night's sleep since last week, and it's very odd for me. I usually sleep like a baby on Ambien and whisky, and I have to wonder if I've stripped some sort of gear.

I'm trying a "Java Chip Frappucino" at Starbucks, in order to prime the chemical pump. So far, it's cold enough to hurt that one tooth that always gives me trouble (the chink in my dental armor), and the little chocolate chips are an annoyance, like oral debris, making the whole drink feel dirty, and not in a good way.

Shit.