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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