Salut

He didn't need to drink. Some people never understood that. They thought because he drank a lot, because he was rarely entirely sober, that he had some overpowering need to drink. They thought he must have some deep, underlying existential pain that he was attempting to drown in gin. Idiots.

But it just wasn't so. He had a happy childhood, he passed through adolescence without being scarred, his teen-age years had been great fun, and he breezed through young adulthood without ruffling his hair. No, he drank for one simple reason: he liked being intoxicated.

Not drunk. He'd only gotten truly drunk maybe half a dozen times in his entire life. He didn't enjoy being drunk. But mild intoxication seemed like home to him. Being intoxicated made the slow times pass somewhat more quickly and stretched out the good times. The bright parts of his life seemed a tad less harshly-lit while the dark parts became more bright. Dull people seemed a bit more witty and witty people positively sparkled. Unimportant things took on a bit of weight and those oh-so-critically-important things seemed somehow less weighty.

All he wanted was to live in a world softened around the edges. Was it too much to ask?