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As I tipped my Lagunitas IPA into my cereal bowl this morning, introspection creeped in.
Is it the Quarantine Blues or am I just an alcoholic?
Those two things don’t need to be mutually exclusive, but it would benefit me if they were. Because I have gone eight days of what feels like the World’s Loneliest Bachelor Party.
Yesterday, I polished off an entire sixer in an all-hands work call and told our marketing girl I always thought she was cute during the 8 seconds I wasn’t on mute. She recently got engaged and I even signed the congratulatory card. Whatever, Brad has asthma. His future is uncertain.
My wife, who evidently does not believe white wine is an alcohol, recently confronted me on drinking every day of the quarantine, and feel free to use any of the following excuses I’ve activated:
I am drinking for those we’ve lost to this awful virus. It’s my civic duty as a living human. Please respect the dead.
We are in the midst of a global pandemic which means my lifestyle changes very minimally but I’m going to act like I was fucking Lance Armstrong before I wasn’t allowed to go outside. Beer is my way of dealing with burying the man I once was. Can you not see I’m in mourning?
They’re craft beers, so drinking is like a hobby. And guzzling down a 12-pack is research. It’s my passion and the only reason I’m growing a beard. Please support me for once.
If I could do it all over again, I would have married your best friend.
Do not recommend the last one, but whiskey knows no consequence.
Hm.
Four double IPAs deep and I forgot exactly why I was writing this to begin with.
Oh yes, to comfort myself into believing other people cannot feel their faces past 3 pm and won’t start a 1,000 piece puzzle until they can see 2,000 pieces.
Please, and I know you don’t know me personally, but promise me you’ll drink with me until this global nightmare is over.
I simply cannot do it without you.
lol that was a lie. Cheers bitches.