Old Man River

Life is like a stream. There are long stretches of calm water and many deep pools. There are also some rocks. There are some big rocks. There are some big rocks with sharp edges hidden in fast moving rapids, festooned with the corpses of careless boaters.

All of us are issued a small canoe with which we are expected to navigate the river of life. All of us get some calm water and all of us get some rapids. Most people are OK with this. They get in their canoe and get on with the journey. They paddle away to the best of their ability and get where they need to go. They try to miss some of the rocks. They try to enjoy the shady pools.

Alcoholics, however, are immediately unhappy with the canoe. They don't like the color, the size, or the style. They install huge turbocharged motors and a fully stocked mini bar. They blast off down the stream at 100 MPH, in a blackout, at three in the morning. They hit a lot of rocks. Sometimes it seems like they are deliberately aiming for the rocks. They stop and carry the canoes through thickets of thorns and snakes, believing that the river is out to get them. They wake up the next day, bloody and stunned, wondering where they parked the canoe.

Get back in the canoe. Start paddling. Keep quiet.