If It Isn’t One Damn Dream, It’s Another

I used to drink, rather a lot. A persistent fantasy during this time was that someday, after my newspaper career, I’d be a blowsy old barkeep.

Some alcoholic private eye would run his business out of my little hole-in-the-wall tavern.

Every once in a while, I might even get laid.

At age 40, I got clean and sober. It wasn’t a goal, and it wasn’t my idea of how to march into old age as a fabulous old dame.

Funny story: I may be the only person in the world who was blackmailed into treatment by her physician for overdosing on a nutritional supplement — L-Tryptophan.

Not long after, I got into graduate school, picked up three degrees and spent the next 28 years working.

Nose to the grindstone, shoulder to the wheel: total life change.

Didn’t Know I Cared

I started imbibing about two years ago, when I learned about the death of a youthful lover. I discovered, to my astonishment, I’d been in love with him.

I hadn’t noticed at the time. I was good at compartmentalizing my emotions. Drugs, sex, rock’n’roll, In that order.

Fast forward to the present: With the presidential election threatening to turn my country into a fascist hellhole, and my total life change plans on hold until I figure “what the hell is going on” to quote the ignoramous elect, I’m starting to think:

Genius Idea

Blowsy old barfly. Maybe I had it right the first time.

Sit back and watch the apocalypse of democracy begin.