Apollo Fields | Dear Blank | Dear Alcohol | Terrence Huie | Writer

“Dear Alcohol,

You are something that I both run to—and run from. I want you when I’m sad, but even more when I celebrate. You are the salve to my stress, the blur to my vision, the haze that shrouds my reality. I need you like a need a good friend to talk to, less for the company and more for the reprieve from my running mind.

You come in so many forms, always dressed for the occasion. A large heavy snifter for the intellectual with elbow pads and horn-rimmed glasses: bourbon. A thin, long stem reaching up to a tulip, red lipstick hanging on the rim: wine. But forever my favorite, the round-bottomed everyman vessel, the down-up-down cheers, slug it down and slam it on the bar: pint glass. Give me a stool, a shot, and a beer and I’m your friend.

And that’s what you promise to everyone that consumes you; that everything is going to be all right. A shot of tequila is a swift pat on the back, but four of them back-to-back is a burly bouncer tossing you onto the floor. There aren’t many friends down there. Especially not the bartender. A couple more and your grip around consciousness turns double vision into darkness.

It’s no surprise that you’ve been around for approximately 7,000 to 9,000 years, it’s obvious most humans need Something to survive. I need people. I need to sit with conversation like a Cabernat in a decanter, and let people breathe. My mind left to its own devices pressurizes until the cork pops from the champagne bottle. Talking helps me breathe and a pint helps me talk.

You are just like everything else in this world: best consumed in moderation. You trick tipsy people with deluded promises of confidence until they wake up in the morning. But you are also the bubbles at a wedding, the solo cup at the 4th of July, and splashes on a grave—you always dress for the occasion—and you’re one beautiful monster.

Your imbiber,
Terrence”