Sinner

My gosh, my gosh, I had received a bottle of Irish Cream for a Christmas gift and only just opened it this night.  No ice, no coffee, just a couple of spoonfuls in a small glass and you'd think I was the derelict of the world, gone straight to hell.  I drank in my twenties, nothing productive came of it, the phase was a waystation in a sea of malaise.  It seemed like I was doing something.  Anything to fill the empty calendar. God knows I was smart enough for school, just not motivated or expected to go.

At the first taste, the sting of the liqueur was as harsh as stubble.  This is whiskey.  This is what my family smelt of, from grandmother to father on one side; from grandfather to mother on the other and most relatives in between.  Uh oh, do I want this stuff trickling down my throat?

What I want is a release and ease from the tension.  Is that why people drink?   Truth be told, I don't know the difference from being a social drinker to lout.   When is it okay?  It adulterates the brain from the liver being overwhelmed and not processing the toxins fast enough.  Is that it?  It feels like sin, or the license to.  As I age, I am more frightened by deviation from normalcy, and drinkers do that to me if to a lesser degree than when I was young.  Subsequently, I don't drink.  But I will watch as you do, and become more judgmental with each glass you swallow because you now are something to be feared.

O normalcy, you elusive twit.  Will I ever know or understand you?