A week or so into this quitting-alcohol stint I brought alcohol into my life in a disgusting new way. Highly recommended.
In my non-urban home [because of an unplanned falling-in-love event nine years ago, I have two homes — my original beloved urban home where I live (and drank) alone and a newer 10-acres-outside-a-cool-small-town home with my partner (where I drank much less but did a lot of hiding of and thinking about alcohol)] … we have ticks. This year is pretty bad. When I pick them off me out on the land, I just toss them back in the grass. But when I pick them off me near the house or my workshop, I want to kill them, which at the house means flushing them down the toilet. But every time I did that I resented the hell out of it. Our water comes from rainwater cisterns, which are a limited resource and which I designed and troubleshoot and built parts of, and it pissed me off to waste 1.3 gallons my precious rainwater on a fucking tick.
And then it occurred to me. I got a little jar and filled it with an inch of rubbing alcohol, and I drop those little fuckers in there now. In two months I’ve got a nice little collection of perhaps 30 dead ticks lying at the bottom of the bottle. What it means is that I interact with alcohol — minus the alluring craft beer surrounding liquid, no colorful come-drink-me-and-have-fun labels — just about daily. I put one out in my workshop, too. I’ve got both kinds, wood ticks and deer/Lyme-carrying ticks. I don’t know how long they swim before dropping to the bottom of the jar, dead from alcohol. I’m guessing minutes. Ah, toxicity.
I don’t know if you have the same opportunity to bring alcohol into your life in its true, disgusting, overtly poisonous form. But it you don’t, feel free to use mine:
Happy sober Friday!