I drank beer last night.
Big fuckin whoop, you might say.
Some of you may never have seen me without a little red pill grasped in my mitt, and would find it odd to picture your old pal the pleasurefucker any other way.
But, since I've decided recently that life is nothing without some sort of painful sacrifice to really make you feel vibrant, I decided to quit drinking.
For a month.
Big fuckin whoop, you might say, again. And you'd be right. Most folks don't mind a dry spell here and there, just to get things on track, but me, I've been beer-drunk since my sophomore year of high-school, and have rarely taken any kind of break. In fact, last time I didn't drink for a month I had pneumonia and nearly died freezing my ass off in a drafty flat on Turk St.
I was 22.
Fourteen years ago.
So, I thought I'd give it a go. Give myself 35 days of good food and clear water to get in shape for the Cross Crusade opener in October.
12 days was pretty good. Guess I'll have to ease into this deal, huh?
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