Sorry You Feel Like Crap. Have Some Dog Hair!

I could never be an alcoholic. I say this not to brag about my willpower, as I have little. My problem, in fact, is the opposite. I lack the discipline to force myself to drink all day. I used to be pretty good at getting drunk. In college I would go to a party and down six or seven beers in a couple of hours, and then pass out on a couch or small shrub. It helped that at the time I weighed about as much as Kate Moss at the nadir of the binge/purge cycle, but I attribute my ready inebriation primarily to youthful enthusiasm. In college, I had a single goal in mind: get wasted in as little time as possible. As I got older, I lost focus. It was no longer about just getting wasted; I became seduced by the allure of sleeping in my own bed and not vomiting into a strange man's dresser. When I finally gave in to the desire to avoid making an ass of myself, I could no longer maintain the drive I needed to drink three beers during an episode of Alf. By the time I started to actually drink beer for the taste, it was all over.

Sometimes I can still get pretty toasty by having several rum-and-Cokes or Seven-and-Sevens in a row, but I have to psych myself up first so that I can keep my focus. I can't be distracted by other activities, like "socializing", "eating", or "driving". I need to be head down with a drink in both fists. And don't be slowing me down with pretzels or peanuts -- I need to focus, people! Only when I've got a healthy supply of alcohol on its way to interfere with the proper functioning of my synapses can I allow my vigilance to waver even slightly.

Even when I was in college, I couldn't drink when I was hung over. I needed a good three days before I could stomache alcohol again. I never got the whole "hair of the dog" thing. I never even understood it as a metaphor. "Sorry about that rabid dog tearing into your quadracep, but hey, have a clump of its hair!" The only thing I would want from a dog that bit me was its head on a plaque. The saying should be "Have the head of the dog that bit you on a plaque." But come to think of it, I can't see how a line of bottle caps mounted on my wall would make me feel any better about vomiting up my pancreas either.

It's a losing battle. The older I get, the harder it is to get drunk and stay that way. I might as well accept it:

My name is Quasimofo and I'm sober.