I Need a Drink
I love drinking and smoking. Wait, let me rephrase that: I love the act of drinking and smoking, the affectations, the culture, the pomp and circumstance that festoon the physical process of smoking and drinking. Of course, I don’t actually drink or smoke so I can only pine at these sacred ceremonies from afar, like Moses looking down onto the land of milk and honey he can never have.
What I find so attractive about these habits is that they are life props, fetish acts that can be endlessly molded and accessorized to match your lifestyle or the lifestyle you secretly (or not so secretly) desire. This is something you can’t do swilling soda or, worse, water. There are only two statements you can make drinking water or soda at a bar: you’re either a recovering (or not so much) alcoholic or you’re an undercover cop and/or religious zealot. Neither one of those archetypes is particularly desirable, at least not by me, at least not now.
Because I cannot take advantage of myriad possibilities around nicotine and alcohol, I can only look to my friends to live the capital-ell Life that I cannot. Mostly, they’re coming up short. Very short.