It’s been several days since I vowed not to drink beer for a year, and since I ran the gauntlet on my first beerless outing. Now, through either some karmic retribution or just horrible coincidence, or both, the universe seems to be repeatedly kicking me in the metaphorical junk for making this decision.

Let’s start with the other night. A repeat of my previous outing, wherein my guitarist comes over and we swap song ideas and then head out on the town. This time we make our way to Carlos and Murphy’s, a fine Mexican establishment in Osborne Village. We sit down and while pondering that near-impossible choice between burritos and enchiladas (I swear they’re exactly the same), the waitress takes our drink orders. One Corona and one water, please.

And wouldn’t you know it, she returns with two Coronas and no waters. Now I am forced to do two totally cringe-worthy things: number one, let that delicious beer sit untouched on the table, and two, tell the waitress that yes, I wanted a water and not a beer. She says “oh, I just assumed you wanted the same.” Under normal circumstances, yes, absolutely. But not for the next 362 days.

So, vow-breaking situation averted, I managed to get through the night without a beer again. I think I may eventually just have to remove myself from situations where drinking is encouraged. But I refuse to abstain, bull-headed as it may sound. But how, dear reader, can I remove myself from this?

Apparently staying home is even something I have to worry about – because my friends come over with beer and leave a single solitary Red Stripe in my fridge, just to taunt me. You bastards.

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