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Though my reluctance to partake in the consumption of alcohol has abated in the past few years, I have always, still, been indecisive about why exactly I accede to an inherent dislike for it. In the past, I have blamed the taste of alcohol and expressed that I find it to be almost completely intolerable. Other times, it is the notion that alcohol is more a poison to the body than are unhealthful foods like Twinkies and instant noodles that has aligned it in my mind with weed, cigarettes, and all other consumables my mother would never approve of.
I was reminded of a third reason this weekend — one that deserves more austere consideration perhaps than any other I have offered. It is nothing you have never seen before; I aim only to bring it to light under the scrutiny of your own moral conviction.
At a party this weekend, I witnessed two of my friends, both under the moderate influence of alcohol, rise up in anger against each other. Amidst their harsh exchange of words and pernicious glares, the mental faculty that has made me, the atheist, capable of gratitude and other faith-like virtues, for that brief moment of confounded and anguished emotions, failed. It caved in. It collapsed.
And it hurt. A lot.