Dear Alcohol,

We've been through a long and glorious time, you and I. I really can't claim to have an adult life without you, and you've been one of the most reliable friends. Always there, ready to slum it up with me at a dive, and graciously sapping up my pay stubs whenever my tastes began to escalate. Ever present, ever consistent, ever economically accommodating, it really should be no surprise that in my life you always manage to beat out your green brethren.

And the memories, however fuzzy, or inappropriately blacked out. How else would I pre-maturely and childishly out myself at Stevens? What would I have done there without that handful of undesired sexual attempts with cis-men and the latent intoxication that eased the clear discomfort and strangeness of it? What would I have been at Rutgers had I not wasted hours of daylight recovering from your glorious rituals? Would Mexico had been any more enlightening without the glaze of rum? The hot tub? The over-sleeping? The stomach problems? Brooklyn vanity? It's been good, you and I.

But I think we may be coming to the end of our road together. Not to say I won't visit or write, but the partnership just isn't giving me what it used to. Hope you can understand, as I'm sure you'll find plenty of others to keep you company in my stead.


It's been fun,
Dig