“Drink because you are happy, but never because you are miserable.
Never drink when you are wretched without it, or you will be like the grey-faced gin-drinker in the slum; but drink when you would be happy without it, and you will be like the laughing peasant of Italy.
Never drink because you need it, for this is rational drinking, and the way to death and hell. But drink because you do not need it, for this is irrational drinking, and the ancient health of the world.”
― G.K. Chesterton

I spent St. Patrick's Day at one of the biggest illegal street parties in the province, volunteering to hand out water and Timbits to help drunk university students sober up1.
It’s marked on my mental calendar since St. Patrick's Day in 2023, two years ago, was the last time I had a drink.
Whenever I tell people I don’t drink anymore, an admission I try to avoid, it sounds like I was once a raging alcoholic and my burning lust for liquor culminated in some wild backyard Bacardi binge, and afterward I vowed never to do it again. But that’s not how it happened. As far as I remember, I had two or three glasses of Chilean red wine, went to a friend's for a few hours, and was home by 9pm.
I can't say it was ever a clear and firm decision to stop. There was no fanfare or flourish, no rallying call to arms. Alcohol simply faded into the background of my life like an old memory. I just lost interest.
My drinking died not with a shout, but with a whimper2.
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