Or, the Importance of Wahing the Hands

There are many metrics for how good a man's life is. One that I think rather robust is the number of times in a given 12-month period that he feels close to vomiting. Through weakness of character and lack of foresight, I have increased this year's V-number by falling afoul of the demond drink.

I have spent a night spitting and thinking crazy feverish thoughts about how I would be less angry in the morning. When your body rejects tapwater, you know that you've crossed the line from indulgence to poisoning.

Frankly, I think it's time to start work on checking off one of my life goals: secular monasticism. Sobriety and vegetarianism¹ are looking pretty good right now. A vow of celibacy wouldn't be much of a burden when you consider my face and love of Star Trek^{2, 3}. Sustainable living, of course, is a cause celebré for me. Finally, the clothes are awesome.

1. Barbeque. I have been sweating beef fat all day. I feel like a McDonalds french-fry.
2. Oh no he didn't!
3. Picard was the best captain.