I’m taking a trip with my family, and there’s a wedding planned for later in the day at the lodge where we’re staying. As my wife checked us in, I took the kids to the bathroom, which was located at the far end of a room being turned into a wedding reception area. People were bustling to and fro, adjusting plates, checking seatings lists, and fiddling with the sound system. Like metal to a magnet, I was drawn to the bar, which, along with a detailed drink menu, hosted the sign you see above. That prompted the following letter.
Hi. It’s been a while. How’ve you been? Drunk? Yeah, that sounds about right.
Me? Oh, I’ve been sober about seven months. That’s why you haven’t seen me around. And now I run into you here, getting ready for a wedding. I guess it beats hanging out in my freezer.
So what’s this, your assurance that if I drink you, I can dance? Oh, vodka, you have no idea…dancing was the least of our problems. What? Yeah, I know that wasn’t your promise to me since I don’t give a damn about dancing. Your promises were fine-tuned to me; you had me believe that I’d be more fun around my kids, that I’d be a better writer, a more patient husband, a better lover, and a better human being.
What a fucking lie. All you did was bring out the worst in me. I began a slow decline with you in my system and I drank more and more, frantic to keep the false sense of security you initially provided. In the end, I was in shambles and so was my life.
But I stopped, and I don’t need you anymore. I’m sure you’ll find plenty of people here tonight to love you, but this boy ain’t one of them.
I would tell you to take care of yourself, but I’d be OK if you fell into an open sewer and died.