My friend always drinks by himself, and we used to tease him that "One is an alcoholic and two is a party." He would get kind of upset, but only for the fact of being called an alcoholic. Finally, one night, I went up to his room for something, and I found him drinking by himself, just while watching TV. So, I asked him why he drank alone. At first, he gave me this I-Know-You-What-You-Are-Getting-At Look, but I pressed a little harder and he finally gave me an adequate answer, quite similar to Xamot's. He said that it help him think about things. He just relaxes and lets go. He doesn't have to, but he wants to. He said it is no different that sitting down with a cup of tea. And, the weirdest part about the whole situation was that I actually understood him. It made sense.

Sitting down at the bar - the worries all left at the door. Failing leaving them at the door, it has the comforting realization that beyond those gates no action that you take will make them any nearer or further.

It is the time just to relax and be alone in a crowd. From the quite mummer of a Monday evening or Sunday afternoon where fellow patrons sit scattered apart and the jukebox plays the occasional 80's hit - to the noise of Thursday or Friday night where it is hard to raise a glass without bumping an elbow. Whatever the surroundings and atmosphere there is very little that exists outside of the world of yourself, the bar stool and that small part of the bar upon which your drink rests.

Slowly - savoring the taste and temperature you drink it. This is not the time for a shot to be tossed down quickly and left. Instead, this is the time for a slow pint or something to sip. Each sip slowly washing away the mental grime of the day away and clearing the mind.

This is the time for relaxing - not worrying about what tomorrow will bring or feeling jealous of the couple in the booth. Nor is it a time for gloating about how far ahead you are in the game of life. This time is for you - you alone.

I drink alone for many reasons. One of them is I don't like many people. Another is that I can cry without people getting all in a huff over it, or laughing because they finally saw me at my weakest.

Usually it's a bottle of cheap red wine. Little more than syrup with enough alcohol to knock me over for a while. Get out the corkscrew. Get it in. Arm wrestle it out. Pour half the bottle into one of my massive punch glasses. Plastic. always plastic. Epilepsy precludes me from using glass tumblers with regularity. Music, ah, the choice of music here will decide whether I'll bawl my eyes out or simply fall asleep and wake up begging for a bullet through the eye in the morning.
Make the playlist, Settle down, and start sipping. Sing along, voice becoming slurred. I've listened to myself, someone recorded me. It's... funny yet sad. I'm my own bartender. And I know my limits. I don't push them. Ever. Tonight's one of those nights. This wine is for my mother.

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