I have to write. After work. I will not go to happy hour. I will head straight home, crack open my laptop, and I will write. I will ignore the late afternoon nervous tick of emails inquiring about today’s “HH.” I will respond to the influx of “what are you guys up to tonight?” texts with an apologetic emoticon face, and a confident “have to write.” Shocked and pleading follow-ups thwarted by my assertions that This Needs to Happen; requisite jokes about the irony of The Alcohol Enthusiast turning down invites to booze, followed by “shhh don’t tell anyone,” winky emoticon face, “oh if they only knew.”
But not drinking is not my secret because that has never happened. When the HH emails and the party-time texts come through the enthusiasm-trembles start pulsing, the anxious inner-pace begins. Then the desks around me turn ghost town, and visions turn to vodka, and visions become karaoke and peep shows and 4am.
It’s hard to write The Alcohol Enthusiast when you’re an alcohol enthusiast.
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