April 10, 2001 (later)

I stare at the beer.  The beer stares at me.  The beer is sitting on the table next to three of its fallen brothers and the beer stares at me.  

I know if I drink this beer, it will banish whatever rational thoughts are left in my head.  I will either pass out, or I will do something foolish, like call Ethan and tell him I love him and I know it's only been three weeks but it's just something I know. 

Whatever happens with this beer, it will not be something I can respect myself for in the morning.  I know this.  If I know it, why can't I stop it from happening?  Why am I taking such an observer's approach to it? 

Mr. Rational Thoughts, do you have any last words or arguments?  "Well, I certainly did my best," You have to imagine him talking with a clipped British accent, as anybody knows a lecture on rational thoughts is best delivered with an accent indicating supreme intelligence and savoir faire.

"And I do think I put up quite the good fight," he continues. "After all, it is almost two in the morning, and you've been drinking since 11.  Had I totally written you off as a lost cause and not said anything, you would have made your tragic mistake at midnight, been horrifically rejected at 12:30 and be sobbing into your pillow at 2.  So honestly, my hard work has bought you two hours.  And those two hours will be greatly and fondly and wistfully looked back at come the morn.