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A bottle a day. Straight gin. Supposedly what my grandfather consumed on a daily average. Until he went to the nursing home. Now? Who knows. That’s a lot of diapers to go through if you drink a whole bottle and still hydrate after. It concerned me, but just a bit. Then my mother told me she spent all of Thanksgiving Day cleaning his feces off the bathroom floor. No control. This scared me a lot more.

I like to drink.

A fair amount.

And sometimes a bit too much.

And I like pussy. Let’s be real here. It’s easier to get pussy with alcohol. It makes nights at loud nightclubs with shitty music more tolerable. It loosens you up on your date. Loosens her up, too. Heh.

I don’t even know if I want to live until 80. As of now it’s hard to picture myself running around with little grandchildren. If I don’t have those, I definitely would rather have 60 great years of pussy and fun and risk dying an early death. At the same time I’m realizing I don’t want to play the game forever. I want to pass my genes on. Teach a boy how to wheel a go kart. Roll the dice and hope beyond hope that my daughter doesn’t take after me and become a raging slut. I’ll keep the booze away from her.

But mostly, I really don’t want to be shitting myself uncontrollably on a bathroom floor.

So yeah, I got scared.

How much of it is due to drinking – who knows? But I know my other “four” grandparents (one a step-grandparent) are all the same age. And are all looking quite spry for being roughly eighty years old. They’re not in wheelchairs. They’re not splattering diarrhea across the walls.

They also don’t drink a bottle of gin a day.

I had my first sober date today in who-knows-how-the-fuck-long.

I figured it would be awful. Los Angeles girls are so vapid I often feel I need booze to tolerate them. But she was nice. Sat at a Coffee Bean while it was raining. Ran the same game I always run on a drinking date. Same ‘ol, same ‘ol. Just without the buzz. Talk and chitchat about bullshit. Tell her we’re going to play the question game. Make the questions sexual. All your questions are about sex, she says. You’re so bad. I smirk and laugh. Proceed as usual. Walk her back to her car. Throw her against the wall of a parking garage and make out in the rain. Says she’s never kissed in the rain before. Me neither. She doesn’t believe me.

I don’t even try to get her home. Alcohol makes me horny but I’m mellow. My own statistics tell me an hour first date where you charm the hell out of her, followed by a dinner invite at home for a second date almost always gets you the bang. I decide I’ll be patient, unlike when I drink – I have none. Yes, patient. Like an old man. An old man without a drinking problem, I hope. Preferably who functions without diapers, that would be a nice bonus. Will I lose pussy by drinking less?

Only time will tell.

But rather than drinking five times a week, I’ve cut it down to one, maybe two, days a week in the last couple weeks. And frankly, I feel really good.

I’m sorry Gramps.

See you at Christmas.

I hope it’s not the last one.

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