Garden Variety Drunk

Same:  Alike in kind, quality, amount, or degree; not different.


"I'm different."


What a great battle cry.  The battle cry of the wounded alcoholic.  We proclaim this all of the time.  It's one of our most powerful excuses not to dry out and clean up.  We try to make ourselves special and unique.


I cringe when I think of some of the conversations I had when I was getting sober.  There I was, a common garden variety alcoholic, trying to convince old timers that I had problems so unusual that there couldn't possibly be a solution to them in this ridiculously simplistic program.  They were very patient with me, these men, as I talked about the reasons for my drinking: money, jobs, sex, relationships, all standard stuff.


"My parents were terrible!" I yelled, except they weren't, and if they were, it surely didn't make me a special case in the world of the alcoholic.  My parents were fine.  I was terrible.


The deal was that I had to endure The Slog for a while.  The Trudge, leading to the Road of Happy Destiny, which is a comforting but oddly ridiculous slogan.  I don't like to trudge -- I like to skip, prance, and mince.  I don't prefer heavy going.  I want things to be quick and easy.  I want to take a taxi to the Road of Happy Destiny.


Taxi!  Taxi!