You don’t know if you are drinking from it, or it’s somehow drinking you.
Those forgettable lagers that often hide behind the veil of attractive bottles and labels—you must have been an idiot to have romanticized how tastefully the condensation would the gather round and shroud, in fine tiny droplets, the once transparent glass bottle, painting it the hue of chilled, perspiring opaque.
A perfectly bland beverage. You might as well be drinking the bottle itself.
She never quite liked your much mediated habit of drinking. But something tells you that, if you had used all your might to stop, to render yourself free from all substances, in the process, you’d truly become a bad man. A man too clean, too pent up, and not to be trusted.
Then again, there are times when you would contrarily catch, in the strange mirror, glimpses of your beloved father: a great, compassionate, and massively intellectual man: an addict, with no self discipline. Such instances cause you dire cravings to rip off your inherited skin, and become square—just to remind yourself that you are your own man.
Perhaps, it’s this oxymoronic rift in all things, even behind the act of downing a few useless beers, that makes it worthwhile to wake up to another day.