I don’t think I like alcohol any more. Of course, my tastebuds haven’t changed, and no doubt were I to have a beer I’d probably enjoy it: I don’t like what alcohol does to me, or the power it has over me. I don’t like looking forward to it all week; I don’t like how it tempts me to go to the pub when I know driving my chair back drunk will be dangerous. I don’t like how, whenever I have a pint, I always want more and more. I don’t like how it turns me into an arrogant arsehole who thinks it’s somehow manly or cool to drink until I’m sloshed. I dislike how it makes me resent people who say, after I’ve had about three beers, that I better not have any more. I don’t like how I somehow think that to have a good time, alcohol must be involved. I don’t like the look of sadness and disappointment on Lyn’s face when she sees me drunk; or being to drunk to help her. I don’t like waking up in the morning, knowing I have once again fallen back into childish habits and got myself paralytic, after promising myself I wouldn’t. I dislike having a ‘break’ for a few months, only to get as bad as ever the moment the break is over. I hate it – I hate it all, and I want rid of it. I don’t want anything more to do with alcohol. No more ‘breaks’, as they just have me looking forward to an arbitrary end point, after which the problem starts again. Nor am I going to ‘just have one’, as that doesn’t solve anything – I still retain the taste, pandering to the problem. I mean to stop completely. I’ve had enough of this stupidity, enough desiring a substance which only causes trouble. Alcohol has a power over me that it is time I shook off, and the only way to do that is to stop drinking altogether.