Commentary

The Querilous Condition of Dissonant Cognition

Sobriety Manifesto

So often, and I mean I swam in this fugue for years, I told myself I’d dry out. I’d be walking home through east Portland, down Hawthorne to the one bedroom place I shared with another actor. I’d tell myself I wouldn’t buy that beer. That one that I could already taste, that I could already feel trespassing my lips and rushing through my chest like the purifying slider that it had become. Yeah. That one.

Sometimes I’d make it through that gauntlet of brewpub after taproom, past Fred Meyer for the cheap stuff or New Seasons for something more precocious. If I took the bus all the way down the line, I knew if be in the clear. Not always, but if my conviction was true that night, that evening, that afternoon, I’d slip inside and settle in, take a proud sigh of relief, and begin the next cycle…

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