In ten more days, my self imposed drinking hiatus will end, and if I so desire I can saunter into the nearest drinking establishment, saddle up to the bar and enjoy the feel of an inherently warm, almost caramel sweet flavor of Maker's Mark sipping whiskey, accompanied with just the slightest splash of a bubbly carbonated companion.
But I don't think I'm gonna be doing that.
The rules say "no drinking when depressed" and I've found, much like your average intuitive psychology researcher, that depression takes on many forms. It's not always how it looks. And that I've learned to fake it till I make it a lot better than I realize.
Sporty depresses me. Or rather, the idea of her and him.
It's so bad, I can't even enjoy porn.
I'm going to say it, because it's true: I love her. And I missed my chance. I'm not sure how I missed it (but I have a good idea), I'm not sure when I missed it, I'm not even sure there was ever a chance for me to miss...but I know I don't have a chance now. Even worse, she's morphed into what happened with someone else I know, in her case due to the travel situation the relationship has consumed her.
For the record, I subscribe to the the love is forever theory of affection, ie - if you love somebody you love them forever. NO. MATTER. WHAT. You might fight, argue or eventually decide not to be together, but you always love them. Forever. I haven't learned that neat trick so many appear to have mastered of just turning off their feelings for someone. I'm too transparent for that. And I'm not going to tell her this, because no good can come of it.
So that would make me kinda screwed. Or not screwed...whatever.
And drinking damn sure won't help this.
Barkeep...cold ice water and run me a tab.