"You use alcohol as a crutch". Is an accusation that's been lobbed at me more than once in my beer-ridden life. It's not true. Though wood* is tied to my realtionship with booze.
Bad times, like birth, death and going to the toilet, are experiences we all share. But life is like The Who. All about contrast.
Why were they known as the loudest band in the world? Not because they had the biggest, baddest PA. Live at Leeds will explain. Light and shade, That's what it's all about. Full on thrash then near whisper. The noise sounds noisier because of the silence inbetween.
We all share depressing times. And, let's be honest, we've all imposed bad times on others. Sometimes accidentally, others with the sharp intent of a cobra's strike.
Unlike the pogoing concert-goer, I prefer the slow. Emotions? I'd like them to remain quiet.
"Why do you drink?" is the most annoying - and awkward - question. Stock replies abound: to be sociable, because my friends do, for the flavour, for the buzz, to relax, to loosen my inhibitions, to dare talk to that girl, to make me puke and awake swimming in a pool of my own wee. All reasonable enough reasons. They've all applied to me.
"I enjoy the effect on my head and it tastes quite nice." is the most honest answer I can conjour up. I don't have to drink beer. (I worked that out recently by having 3 or 4 beer-free days a week.) But I'd be a liar if I denied that, health and belly aside, I'd drink four or five Abts every day.
But there are special times. Sad times. When the wheels in my head won't stop spinning.
Alcohol isn't a crutch. It's a clog to hurl into the gears of runaway thought.