I drink. To celebrate, to forget, to have one for the road, to give me courage, to disinfect my wounds or because it’s the 3 am last call. I drink to that, to this, to hell and back. I carouse with friends, I sip alone… I drink.

I burst in a Marilyn-squeal when the cork pops out of a beautiful bottle of bubbly. My intoxication begins as soon as the glug-glug-glug-tshhiiiiii hits my magic flute. But I don’t limit myself to only champagne. I also like the burning of Scotch that wrinkles my face. And nothing best than ceasing a Merlot by the neck and chugging a few gulps after a day of work. It shaves off a couple inches of stress, my friends.

But my poison in society is the famous “Bombay Sapphire” gin tonic. It’s deliciously junipery, it’s hydrating and, most of all, it’s a fabulous unit of measure for drunkenness: When I order to the bartender a “Baombaillye Chafailleyeurweh”, I know it’s time to take a break.

To get boozed up, tanked, juiced, sloshed, I love. I surf the buzz, wetting my whistle until my mood is jammed at “Merry.” That said, to get from hammered to shit-plastered, to be disheveled like a well oiled drunk skunk, so arse-holed that you sailor your way to the toilet bowl hurling that Jesus never again I swear, I like it less. Much, much less.

Fortunately, a Quebecois-Irish as your humble scribe is able to paint the town auburn and piss anyone of you under the table before getting sick. This is why I hate when my Judeo-Christian side regularly reminds me that I should stop drinking. Or slow down, at least. You know, because my health and what not … you know.

Now, tell that to people, that you’re not putting mud in your eye anymore. The reactions are rarely of support:

“I didn’t know you had a problem!”

“But I brought a good bottle! Don’t you want to start tomorrow? ”

“How sad!  I thought we were going to party tonight!”

“It’s good that you’re taking care of yourself!” * Sigh putting the wine glasses back in the cupboard * “I guess I won’t drink either…”

In short, when you decide to save your liver, you hinder.

In their defense, sober, I’m possibly as boring a steak with Perrier, so…

So yeah, I drink. Not all the time, but still, I manage to look for opportunities to sway, bend or, at least, giggle more than I should. I have to self medicate one way or the other, anyhow. Facing life straight, with my eyes seeing clearly, seeing through it all, seeing in the darkness of my soul, is often unbearable. All these long nailed demons, squatting in my attic, waiting for me to regain total consciousness so they can start to hurt again … No.


It’s no.

Three sheets to the wind, captain!!

I prefer to see life in rose-colored beer goggles.  Ha! Ha! Ha! I made a funny.

Ok… Where was I going with all that…?

Oh yeah! Health Canada said on TV that women should not take more than two drinks per day.

Excuse me, but after two glasses, I’m just starting to feel something, so, da hell??

Here’s to my health, Canada! Cheers! Sláinte! Prost! Salute! Bottoms up!

Sorry… I don’t know why I’m telling you all this … I’d like to talk about the Syrians, Donald Trump or the pipelines, but it depresses me.

And when I get depressed…


You know…



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