I'm drinking to get drunk. This is the one thing that Pam, my old boss, forbade when allowing us to drink after the shop was closed (we sold wine and beer at the cafe), though she herself was seen not infrequently letting slip down her throat rather large glasses of port, usually in one or two lively draughts. She taught by example and I tend not to infringe.
But tonight is an exception. It is considered by most to be dangerous for one to drink alone; my response is that I am almost always alone (please, please- this is by choice. By choice, I say), so what choice have I? To enjoy a glass of wine with dinner, to crack a canned Boddington's or two while critiquing Jay Leno's new show, to throw back a handful of starry-eyed bourbons-on-ice while the southern rain drenches my deck- these most isolated of life's pleasures I indulge in private, in the same manner as the myriad other pursuits of a solitary life.
And, so, I am mostly drunk. I won't be entirely so tonight; my definition therein is a bit stricter than that.
What are my thoughts this fine evening? So kind of you to ask.
I'm thinking of biking. More than likely, it won't happen. It just so happens that my eyes are bigger than my stomach as far as dreams are concerned, not to mention my propensity for idealistic nausea. But here it is anyways- I'd like to bicycle to Seattle in the spring. No- I'd like to do it now. The truth is that I can't right now, for I'm in the midst of a rather overwhelming project at work and feel the need to see it through to completion (relative as that is in my line of work), and don't care to cut my 'funding' unnecessarily short. So spring is on my mind, when the northern plains have thawed and the Holiday Inn project is complete and my job is endangered anyways, and the open road.
Why Seattle? I have a friend there. Why not?
I'm going to finish my wine beneath the humble overhang of my attic's roof. Best of luck to me.