On Needing a Drink
Yesterday afternoon, the "currently-negative" Coronabeer headlines were back. Right-wing Michigan militia types stormed the Capitol (each side has their embarrassments; the left's hold professorships and Hollywood contracts). Swaths of my truck-worn backyard are a mud pit from all the rain. They're dumping thousands of gallons of beer down the drains.
I needed a drink.
So I had seven. Lucky Seven. I would've had eight, but that could've pushed me to the brink of grave drunkenness, and I have no access to a priest.
Though I guess priests are still doing Last Rites. Maybe I could do the Fred Sanford, but I read Aesop's Fables as a lad, so I know that ploy might come back to bite me when it really matters.
But I suppose things are looking up. For starters, my hangover this morning is far milder than I feared it would be when I woke up at 2:30 to eat a half bottle of ibuprofen, then went to the couch because I had Sunday Morning Coming Down Syndrome. The strategy worked. I was able to hold my head in a way that didn't hurt and was able to get back to sleep, listening to St. Josemaria Institute Podcasts on Redemptive Suffering to take my mind off my Self-Inflicted Suffering. I slept in a bit and woke up to bright sun and a great forecast, with only a half day at the office in front me, and only a small remnant of the 2:30 headache.
Of course, I think I burned my weekend drinking capacity before the weekend even started, but that's alright. It's early May and it's Michigan. I've said for decades: no place is prettier than Michigan in May. I don't need a drink to appreciate it.
