Not surprisingly, I had an insanely high alcohol tolerance, especially considering my gender handicap. I was very proud of my ability drink most everybody under the table.

Using a kind of sobriety double-think, I can recognize the pathetic nature of this pride while still feeling some of it. I sucked! I rocked! I sucked! I rocked!

I rarely if ever threw up or passed out. Throwing up and passing out are, after all, defense mechanisms, and I’d trained my body not to pull that shit with me. As a result, I suffered the next day (or, more likely, the day after, when I finally sobered up). Towards the end of the time I was drinking, I experienced cataclysmic hangovers accompanied by wrenching depressions. Also, I think I had an ulcer.

I had blackouts all the time, but it seemed I behaved the same way during them as outside of them, so they didn’t bother me. As long as I made it home relatively uninjured (no blood) and with my ATM card still on me, it was a successful night.

Anyway, I was thinking about tolerance because yesterday morning a co-worker gave me a piece of candy. It was Merlot-soaked raisins covered in dark chocolate. Since I have no formal rules concerning candy, I ate it, and I got totally fucked up. Okay, it was only for about three seconds, but dude.

This confirms my suspicion that my tolerance has withered and died without cultivation. It’s gone, and with it a large chunk of my old identity. Well, maybe that chunk has been gone for a while, but now the scab is falling off. What I mean is, it seems like it should be painful but I feel okay.

Also, with my tolerance totally nonexistent, if I decide to have a relapse it could only last about ten minutes before I lost consciousness. I suppose I could plan a wine-cooler bender.

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