The Secret Drinker’s Handbook

Illustrations by Esra Røise

My happiest days as a secret drinker were in Kansas City, when my youngest daughter was still a baby. She was allergic to breast milk, so I’d take a bottle of soy milk, bundle her in her sling, and we’d walk to the convenience store half a block from my apartment and buy a half-pint of Jack Daniels and a large Diet Dr. Pepper in a styrofoam cup. Then I’d pour out half of the Dr. Pepper in the alley behind the store and refill it with whiskey. Finding these geographic nooks and crannies in a city is much harder than you’d think, until you begin to search for them. 

We’d walk together through the streets of my neighborhood. Our route usually took us past the abandoned boarding house where Hemingway had lived when he wrote for the Kansas City Star. My daughter drank her soy milk (she was a two-bottle kid, and so I always brought a second bottle of soy milk in my pocket), and I drank my drink. We’d look at each other under the trees on Rockhill and Hyde Park, grand old decayed Kansas City, past the stone mansions and the brick halfway houses and the Nelson-Atkins Museum and Walter De Maria’s illuminated pond. She’d fall asleep, and then I’d take her back home and put her in bed. That’s how she fell asleep every night, until she was a year and a half.

In winter, I’d bundle her under my jacket, with just her little face peeking out, and sometimes we’d go to a second-story Irish bar on Main Street, and other times to Dave’s Stagecoach Inn—a dive I loved on Westport Road. A secret drinker misses bars. Like the ritual of chopping your coke or heating your heroin, a drink at the bar is very different from any other kind of drink, even if the bartender is too busy to make conversation and no one else wants to chat. One very cold winter night, when the bar was full at Dave’s, a bartender I’d never liked told me: “I can’t serve you with your baby in here, man.”

“You’ve served me with her in here plenty of times before,” I said. “The baby’s not drinking.” At the few bars we frequented, most people liked to see me with my baby. Most drunks are friendly and kind, generous people who appreciate the difficulties of others and like babies. 

“You shouldn’t have that baby out in this cold, I can’t serve you.”

“I’m sorry, what did you just say?” I yelled at him. “Did you just tell me how to take care of my baby? How many children do you have?” 

I could see he didn’t have kids. I lost my temper. My baby was warmer snuggled up under my heavy winter coat than she would have been at home in bed. “The one thing I can’t bear is people telling me how to raise my children,” I said to a woman standing next to me. She nodded sympathetically.

Later, after I quit drinking, I wanted to go apologize to the guy. But if you’re a drunk, once you start apologizing, it never ends. I don’t care what they say at AA.

S

ecret drinkers are everywhere. You’re constantly surrounded.

Say you decide to have a drink on your lunch hour or in the quiet afternoon. You see a woman sitting alone in a booth with a glass of white wine and a plate of uninteresting vegetables in front of her. It’s not readily apparent to most people that she’s hiding anything. And that’s the ruse: She knows the general public doesn’t associate white wine with the alcoholic’s drink of choice.

You notice a guy in the liquor store looking nervous at the register, almost as if he were planning to rob the place. He takes his pint of rum but not his receipt—he’s of age, so what’s his problem? He is in fact glancing over his shoulder, but he’s not worried about the cops or you. He’s looking for the people he hopes he won’t see or, more specifically, people he hopes won’t see him. He’s looking for his wife’s friends. For members of his home group at AA. Coworkers. Old lovers, who know he’s supposed to be sober. Students or customers. All the people he lies to—those who think he no longer drinks. 

When a secret drinker enters a restaurant, even before he sits down, he takes note of the bartender, the bathroom, and a table with its back to the bar. “That’s where we’d like to sit, please,” he tells the hostess. Ideally, there is a wall or a pole or some other obstruction between his table and the bar. If the bar and the bathroom are far apart, a good secret drinker will suggest a different restaurant. The best restaurants have both the bar and the bathroom completely separated from the dining room, which allows the secret drinker to easily keep pace with his date. 

The first rule of secret drinking: Keep your date drinking, too. Only a sober person can spot a drunk.

The secret drinker will go to the bathroom more often than an ordinary person. I don’t know how many times I’ve been told, without a hint of sarcasm, “You have a small bladder.” The smart secret drinker will drink plenty of water and will often order several beverages—coffee, Diet Coke, sparkling water—in order to reinforce the illusion that he is a recovering drunk. 

Even when the secret drinker gets stuck in a restaurant where the bar and bathroom are inside the dining area, there are workarounds. About a year ago, I was having dim sum one morning with a date on the Upper West Side in a place where the bar was in plain view and opposite the bathroom. There were no other dim sum restaurants in the neighborhood, and once we were inside, my date wanted to sit beside me in a booth. I had spotted a little basement breakfast place around the corner on the walk over, a long shot but my best hope. As with most restaurants, the bathrooms in the dumpling place were close to the exit. I went to the bathroom, slipped out the back door, and darted into the breakfast place. They didn’t sell liquor but did have wine in little bottles. I asked for three bottles of Merlot—undrinkable stuff, slightly better than cough syrup, really—and paid with cash. I stood on the sidewalk and, with my date’s back to me, gulped them all down. I made two more visits back there before our meal was over. This was despite the fact that I had to come in the front door. I didn’t know how to explain it to my date—who by this time had reason to be suspicious. But luckily, she didn’t notice. If she had, any old lie would’ve probably worked. It was 11 in the morning and the truth was too absurd, even for me.

Rule number two: Always carry cash. Your bank statement is your enemy, and you can’t pay in a hurry with a credit card.

In Seattle, on a date with a different woman and an older friend of hers, I tried the same trick at a seaside restaurant, and they saw me come back in the front door every time. (I’d always wedge the back door open, but it’d rarely stay that way. Kitchen staff go in and out of these doors a lot, and they usually lock automatically. You can knock, and they might let you in the first time, but they won’t repeatedly.) My date’s older, savvier, more skeptical friend, a criminal-defense lawyer from Louisiana, took notice and said: “You go to the bathroom in the back and come back in the front.” She raised an eyebrow. “Are you going next door to drink?” 

She liked me, but she had the low-down. I said, “I like to look at the ocean for a minute when I have the chance. I live in Kansas City. It’s a treat for me.”

I don’t think even my date bought that one, but if you control the discourse, you control the truth. Secret drinking is just like any other kind of cheating. You’re never really busted until the evidence is absolutely overwhelming or, fool that you are, you admit the truth.

Rule number three: Deny, deny, deny. If you haven’t learned this one in the course of ordinary life yet, learn it today. Of course you want to tell the truth. Of course she tells you she’ll forgive you if you’ll just admit the truth. And when she tells you that lie—the lie about forgiving you, the lie of absolution with confession—she means it. She doesn’t know it’s a lie. But after you admit the truth, everything changes. 

Here’s another example of how to beat the bar-bathroom problem: It was a big night out at Masa in New York. I had eaten at the restaurant before, and I knew there was no bar. I couldn’t repeatedly leave the restaurant: It was in a mall, and there was no rear exit. So, it came down to my socks. You can fit as many as three airplane/minibar bottles of liquor into each sock. If you carry a purse, of course, it’s probably much easier. You can use your suit pockets, but that’s risky; there’s probably going to be cuddling in the taxi on the way to the restaurant. On arrival, go to the bathroom and hide the bottles. Usually there’s a shelf, a cabinet, a drop-panel ceiling—something. I’ve hidden regular-size wine bottles in restaurant bathrooms before, but at Masa there was nowhere to hide anything. Those Japanese and their minimalist aesthetic. There wasn’t even a removable top on the toilet tank (bottles will float very happily in there, though you risk someone taking a peek if they interfere with the apparatus or make a noise—I’ve never been entirely comfortable with this method.) So I put mine in the garbage can, tucking them beneath the trash. When I returned to the bathroom I’d always empty the trash into the toilet or my pockets, all but a tissue or two, so that an employee wouldn’t take it and find my bottles. 

It was a beautiful evening: My date drank sake at the sushi bar, I drank vodka in the toilet, and she didn’t worry about me getting drunk. We took a bicycle cab from Lincoln Center all the way to our hotel on Gramercy Park, where there were still bottles in the minibar that I could drink and refill with water.

Another piece of advice: Don’t forget your cell phone. This won’t work as well with an intimate acquaintance, but with casual friends or at business lunches or dinners, a cell-phone call is an ideal excuse to leave the table. Step outside to another nearby place. Or, if your destination is a bit more remote, stash a bottle in your glove box or under the seat (it’s awkward if someone notices you opening your trunk in the middle of an imaginary cell-phone call).

Rule number four: Accept that everyone knows what you’re doing, and act as if no one does. You must be blithe, confident, and assured.

Later, when you’re in recovery, if you tell a close friend, “I was secretly drinking at that time,” you’ll almost always be pleasantly surprised to learn that they had no idea. People are much less suspicious than you think. But the attitude that everyone knows what you’re up to will keep you from skulking, which is a dead giveaway.  

Rule number five: Befriend the bartender. Befriend your waiter. Befriend any staff who will permit you to do so. 

Suppose you have positioned your date so that she’s facing away from the bar; there’s the bathroom, inviting you, and there’s the corner of the bar and the bartender. You excuse yourself while she’s looking at the menu and say, “Please order me a Diet Coke if the waiter comes by.” Time for a double vodka. Well vodka only, straight—that’s the quickest and cheapest route to drunkenness. No ice for the same reason. Slip the bartender a 20—that works out to a $10 tip in the vast majority of bars and restaurants in the country and will still be an easy $5 in pricier places. And the next time you order a double, he’ll pour you a triple. 

If you see your waiter—no one said this was going to be cheap, but it is cheaper than your regular drinking—hand him a ten or a 20 too, if you can. No one can bust you faster than a waiter. “Can I bring you another vodka, sir?” Right at the table, in front of your date. This has happened to me several times.

You’ll notice that I only refer to men above, in terms of waitstaff and bar staff. I don’t know why it is, but in my experience, female waiters and bartenders are more likely than males to bust secret drinkers. It may be that they are less tolerant of lies, secrets, and silence. It may be they are more often the victims of secret drinking. It may be they simply side with your date. Or it may merely be that my charm doesn’t work as well on them, maybe because I subconsciously feel more guilty using a woman as an accomplice. Either way, something to keep in mind. 

The best way to take care of your waiter is to stand by the bathroom door and wait for him to approach the bar. Wave him over. Then say, “Could you get me a double well vodka? Just between us. I’m not really drinking.” Then deliver the 20. They understand—they’ve been down this road before. It never hurts to add, “I’m sure you understand.” Normally, this will disarm the situation.

Another marvelous trick: After the big tip, ask your waiter if he can bring your next Diet Coke with a shot of vodka in it. I’ve never had anyone—man or woman—refuse. That said, this one is risky. Once at a PF Chang’s in Kansas City, a young, dumb waiter came by my table to pick up my empty Diet Coke-and-vodka glass I’d ordered at the bar—with him standing beside me—and said, “Another drink, sir?” 

“Yes, another DIET COKE, please.” 

My date stared at me, mouth agape. The waiter still didn’t get the hint. 

“Diet Coke and vodka, correct, sir?” 

“Uh, no, Diet Coke is what I was drinking. I don’t drink.”

He finally got it. “Oh, of course, sir.” When he came back, he brought me a Diet Coke. Which was fortunate, because the first thing my date did was ask for a sip of my drink.

L

ike many young boys, I took my first secret drinks from my parents’ liquor cabinet. My stepsisters and I didn’t drink much at a time, but eventually my stepfather called a family conference at the dinner table and accused my older stepbrothers of sneaking sips. We let them take the heat.

Later, at age 12, I was babysitting and hit the liquor cabinet again. Some friends came over and then the parents arrived, back from their date. My mother said she smelled the vodka on my breath. I denied it, of course. But the next day, child that I was, I asked her: “What is that alcohol that has no smell?”

“There is no alcohol that has no smell,” she informed me.

For two decades you wait, watching other people enjoy their alcohol. It’s in these formative years that the secret drinker begins to learn the art and thrill of his craft. You also learn that, above all else, alcohol is freedom. It is the great equalizer of inhibition. For years, growing up, you watch other people drinking. They become happier and happier the more they imbibe—freer, looser, wilder. When I had a serious talk with my eldest daughter, some years ago, about my drinking, she said of my ex-wife and me: “I always liked it when you two were drinking. You were more playful. You were more fun.” (Eventually, I admit, I managed to convince her, through my behavior, that I am not so fun when I drink.) 

Drinking is everywhere, all the time, but we are only free to do it in certain prescribed situations. An editor friend of mine installed a camera in his office because he observed that the levels in all of his high-priced scotch bottles were steadily decreasing. Then the scotch started changing color. Soon after installing the camera, he saw our friend, a secret drinker, creeping into his office at ten in the morning when my editor friend had gone to the bathroom, shakily opening a bottle and stealing a swig or two before putting it back on the shelf. Sometimes he’d bring a bottle of water with him for a little judicious refilling. (On that note, be careful about using water to refill a partially emptied bottle of alcohol. Water clouds many liquors, and then you’ve no choice but to take the whole damn bottle. A full-size bottle of liquor is a hard thing to hide.) I don’t think my editor friend, a kind and fair man, ever confronted the perpetrator. If I know him as well as I think I do, he empathized with his colleague’s need and suffering. This man simply had to have a drink in the morning. And he was either too broke to buy his own or knew that if he had his own he wouldn’t have been able to hide his drunkenness. One thing my friend is not, however, is a philanthropist. He started filling his 30-year-old Macallan bottles with $7-a-bottle Teacher’s.

As recently as 20 years ago, you were free to drink three martinis at lunch before heading back to the office with a sanguine grin on your face. Then there was a long stretch when getting buzzed during work hours was unacceptable. But lately things seem to be veering toward freedom again. 

My point is that when the alcoholic quits, he’s not just quitting drinking. The physical part is mostly easy. The hard part is that by quitting drinking, he is also quitting a lifestyle, a way of understanding the world, a basic irreplaceable pleasure, a treatment for psychological problems, a stimulant to his appetite for life, and a basic understanding of himself. But the most difficult thing is that the drinker is walking away from his personal freedom and stifling his free will. You may think he is a slave to his addiction. But really, it is his addiction that keeps him from being enslaved. 

Every time the drinker feels oppressed, he reaches for the bottle. People have told him he shouldn’t drink, and he hasn’t listened. This wears him down, and the secret drinker emerges from his malaise in a state of oppression. 

This is nothing new. When St. Augustine, as a boy, climbed a wall to steal pears that he didn’t even bother to eat, he concluded that it was proof of original sin. And in a sense, he was right: It was an expression of his freedom, it was his rebellion, his defiance. Adam, too, took a bite of the apple simply because he was warned not to, rather than because of lies he was told involving a snake and a woman. Dostoyevsky’s Underground Man refuses to go to the doctor despite his diseased liver simply because to do so would be to comply with societal norms and negate his choice to do as he pleases, even if that choice is impulsive and counterintuitive. He insists that he will be free, whatever the price. Every secret drink guzzled is, in essence, an act of defiance against the tyranny of others, or the tyranny of a partner, the tyranny of society, or even the tyranny of one’s own addiction: “Fuck you! I can have three long swallows and put you back down here behind the basement stairs, Mr. Belvedere. And good night!” Or a better, more realistic idea, even if it’s a more modest statement: Buy the half-pint and just drain the whole damn thing. 

A

re you, reader, trying to quit drinking or transition to a more sober lifestyle? Going cold turkey may not be for you. If, against my advice, you decide to head down this road of desolation, it will most likely go something like this: Three days white-knuckle sober—then who knows how many days spent on a wild bender. Your partner, if you have one, will be furious. Recriminations, promises, tears. Soon you will start to lose things that will inhibit your day-to-day existence. It starts with your driver’s license, your credit cards, your keys, your cell phone, your money, your clothes. And it only escalates from there.

Worried about losing self-respect? Please. I remember an editor of mine once telling me about a writer who had ordered $10,000 worth of wine on his publisher’s tab at a restaurant before passing out stone-drunk in the bathroom. “Imagine being that guy, the next day,” he said. I replied, “Oh, don’t worry, he can handle that. He’s way past the point of caring whether or not people think he’s a drunk.” You’ve already lost your reputation at this point. But your job? Your career? Your liberty? Your partner? Your kids? All these can and will be taken away if you don’t get a grip. 

But if you’ve reached this point, you’re past convincing anyone—including yourself—that you are capable of tapering off. So consider secret drinking. It’s largely self-regulating. You get your fix, but you have to keep it secret, which means you have to keep it under control. 

This brings us to rule number six: You must possess rigid discipline regarding texts and phone calls. Your cell phone—which has allowed so many to secretly drink—can become your worst enemy once you’ve had a few too many (and that’s inevitably going to happen). You will call or text sober people who will recognize that your syntax is garbled and more words are misspelled than usual. Your easy affection and quick anger are all too familiar. And your wit is suddenly off half a beat.

There’s a simple way to avoid these problems: Never get drunk. The key, I cannot repeat enough, is self-discipline; and here, again, St. Augustine is helpful: “The greatest part of virtue lies in avoiding the opportunity for vice.” Augustine was familiar with the weaknesses of human will. This is the same man who, when trying to overcome his sexual rapaciousness, prayed: “Make me chaste, Lord… but not yet, Lord, not yet!” This, too, is the secret drinker’s prayer. OK, stay with me here. Now we’re going to talk about baby steps—how secret drinking can keep your habit (somewhat) in check. 

Your backyard is your safest bar, but it’s only as good as the weather. If it’s a nice time of year and you like secretly drinking in the sun and warmth, buy a few bottles and hide them underground—flowerbeds are easiest—at an angle, and roll some tinfoil over your stash. Then, at your leisure and with a long straw and a beach towel, there’s your subterranean booze fix. This is an old trick, however, so old that if your partner or relatives attend Al-Anon they will have heard of this one, so beware. 

The secret drinker must accept and embrace the fact that he cannot stay sober inside airports and airplanes. Here he has freedom—flight!—mixed up with glamour and excitement—travel, luxury, and escape: These are the wool of bat and tongue of dog that flavors the hell broth of the alcoholic soul. And there is no easier place in which to secretly drink than an airport. Every bartender working in an airport assumes that their customers are in a hurry. On the plane it’s even easier—the bar is in immediate proximity to the bathroom. If you’d rather not steal the bottles (a moment’s work), flight attendants are very happy—it’s surprising but true, and I don’t know why this is the case—for you to stand and chat with them while you buy and down a drink. Maybe it has something to do with being stuck in the back of the plane for long hours every week. The toilet seat of an airplane bathroom is an unusually comfortable place to drink a bottle of red wine—especially if it’s a larger plane and several other bathrooms are available. It’s snug and private and no one can call you on your phone or expect anything from you while you’re in there.

If you are trying to stay sober but slip up while traveling, be prepared: Once you’re home, the first few nights will be difficult. It can take as long as 90 days to break the physical dependency to alcohol. You will not be able to sleep without booze. So tell your partner: “I’m making a teapot of hot milk to drink while I read.” Wholesome. She’ll offer to make it for you, she’ll be so pleased. But no, you insist. It’s “soothing” for you to make it yourself. Hot milk is nothing without a little cinnamon, nutmeg, and, depending on the brand, 50 to 120 proof vanilla. Start with medium-size bottles and buy them every day on the way home so she doesn’t notice how much you’re using or how fast you’re going through them. They’re small and easy to tuck away in the garbage. I used to buy specific brands and wash the labels off the back so that my now ex-wife wouldn’t notice the alcohol content (many brands of vanilla are labeled on the front for this very reason). If you pour too much in, you will be asked: “What’s that smell?” The familiar worried expression. “Nutmeg, I think. You know, no one ever guesses nutmeg.” So be sure to use lots of it and pile on the cinnamon.

It’s also important for the secret drinker to establish and follow a strict routine. You’re home at six. Play with the kids for an hour, feed them. While she’s making their lunches, run to the store for adult food. Grab a half-pint of Jägermeister (surprisingly, it has the least breath smell of any liquor). One big swallow in the parking lot. A second gulp before the grocery store. A third when you get back into the car. After you park in the driveway, stash the bottle in the garage, again, in a trash can (you are going to become increasingly conscientious about taking out the trash), or under a stairwell if possible. That fourth and last nip, before bed, is your reward for going another day on only a half-pint of Jäger. This solitary pleasure, ritualized, sustained me for three solid years before things came to a head. 

For emergencies, always keep alcoholic cough syrup and alcoholic mouthwash in the house. If you slip up and find yourself drunk, down three large swallows of cough syrup, lie down with the half-empty bottle by your head, and plead the flu. The cough syrup will explain the smell and the slurring; the flu gives you the excuse to spend the next morning in bed. 

Other quick tips: At a party, steal a bottle and hide it in the coat closet or bathroom—or some other secluded place where you can explain yourself if caught; buy nonalcoholic beer or wine, pour it out, and refill it with the real thing (this is a particularly good one—you can stroll around the house or the party comfortably with a real drink in hand); run to the convenience store, buy a 40-ounce or two and ask for paper sacks, and take a quick walk around the block (only at night—this can be exceedingly dangerous during the day); or hit a Dunkin’ Donuts, where there is usually a line and the lockable one-toilet bathrooms are usually empty (regular coffee-shop bathrooms are almost always full). If you’re out and your date isn’t drinking she will undoubtedly catch a whiff or ask to smell your breath—eating lemons and hand soap can help a bit, but it’s best if you smoke cigarettes and, on vacation, smoke cigars. 

Rule number seven: Always, always, be in control of the liquor. If your partner seizes the liquor cabinet or even the fridge, you will soon be exposed. So be proactive. When she has that look in her eye, put a drink in her hand. She’ll say she’s not in the mood for one, but soon she’ll want a second. It’s the nature of the drug. Every alcoholic is partnered with an alcoholic in training. “I think you drink vicariously through me,” she’ll say. Well, yes and no. If you are in a hotel with a minibar, so long as you’re always the one making the drinks for your partner, you can always refill the other bottles you smuggle into the bathroom with water. Be sure to discard them when your partner is out of the room, and then, when the bill is presented, if you’re not the one paying—and the minibar tab is an issue—assert firmly that “my girlfriend only had three beers.” They will—I assure you, as I’ve done it many times—remove the other minibar charges from your check. 

Rule number eight: As I’ve said over and over: Be the only one who takes out the trash. 

People are gossips. Spies are everywhere. You can’t become a regular at any establishment. You can’t hit the same convenience store, liquor store, bar, or restaurant too many times. Eventually you’ll wind up in there with your partner, and someone will slip up. They probably won’t even speak: You’ll be asking for a pack of Marlboro Lights for your wife, and he’ll put the cigarettes and a half-pint on the counter and start hitting the register keys. 

Rule number nine: You are a secret drinker now. You’re having an affair. Accept it. Be circumspect, as delicate as the most practiced adulterer. Sometimes fortune favors the bold, and you’ll have to bluff your way through. “Hey, thanks for the whiskey, I’ve been off the stuff for a year now”—give the cashier a hard look—“but thanks, I’m glad you offered!” You’ll laugh, and with any luck your partner will laugh (nervously). These moments must be kept to a minimum. There will be no cell-phone records to trip you up in this love affair (and we’ve already talked about texting), but all the same, other people are out to catch you. You can’t even guess how many times my ex-wife told me, “I heard a story that you were drunk at the X on Y night,” or “I’ve been hearing rumors.” This kind of thing simply cannot happen.

Which leads me to rule number ten, the most important of them all: You cannot get fall-down drunk. But you will get drunk, and occasionally you will even have to admit to a relapse, but you have three, maybe four, Get out of Jail Free cards. When it starts happening more than once a month, your partner or a relative is going to say: “Face it. You’re drinking again.” And once she thinks you’re drinking regularly, secret drinking will become almost impossible. If you use the wrong toothpaste, she’ll smell booze on your breath. If you spray on perfume, she’ll ask: “Do you smell alcohol?” Every minute of every day will have to be accounted for. No more quick trips to the corner store, no more grocery runs. She’ll even start taking out the trash. 

If you use these simple strategies and follow these rules, you can secretly drink for as long as you like. There are a couple caveats, though: First, disposing of bottles. It sounds easy, but it’s a major pain in the ass. Every empty incriminates you—even if it’s not your empty. Empties in the trash will incriminate you; be sure to tie up those bags. If you throw too many bottles over the fence, here comes the angry neighbor—and you’re busted. You can’t let empties stay inside the house. You can’t have empties anywhere. And while it may sound counterintuitive, it’s just as hard to get an empty bottle of booze out of your home as it was to bring it in when it was full. 

Many of the techniques I have described above are appropriate for both single drinkers and partners. I have met people, through the course of my sobrieties and relapses, in and out of AA and psych wards, who realized at some point during their secret-drinking tenure that he or she was married to a secret drinker. The true secret drinker, however, is a sociable person. He prefers the company of others. He craves intimacy, he wants a best friend, he misses his mom. But there will come a time in his life when he is told: “You know, you could just live here in your little apartment and drink yourself to death. Nobody would mind except you. You can have all the bottles you want. Why don’t you just do that?” But you won’t do that.

And it will always be: Make me sober, Lord… But not yet, Lord, not yet. 

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