Copied, formatted, and edited from my post on Reddit:
I like my buzz.
You all can recall a buzz. Your brain is wrapped in a soft, cozy blanket. Your diaphragm opens, you fill your lungs with the smell of cowboy killers and dead soldiers with every breath. Your mind kicks into overdrive, allowing every retort you ever dreamed of in the shower to come to the forefront of your memory and your tongue twists and turns around rhetoric that doesn't dare cross your mind when it's plagued by sobriety.
Your eyes sweep the bar, and you're amazed to see women. Okay, not amazed to see women, but amazed that those women see you. You catch a blonde's eye and you remember your grandfather's advice, "Don't look away like a pansy. Keep eye contact." You do, and unconsciously smile, oh shit she smiled back.
I actually like who I am when I drink. I'm more outgoing, engage more fully in conversations, and have made some good friends with random patrons over a few beers at the bar.
I uphold my societal responsibilities damn it! I work my job, I socialize with people I'm forced to be around, mutilate myself at the gym, help out my family, and then after a full day of engaging in things I. DON'T. WANT. TO. DO., you can bet on your life that I deserve the pleasure of the warm-and-fuzzies from the excretions of yeast. Because you know what? Drinking is like sprinkles on the ice cream of life for me. Life is good, brother, life is a nice double-scoop of cinnamon-vanilla soft serve in a waffle cone, but you know what makes it just that much sweeter? The smooth bourbon sprinkles on top.
I don't know where I'm going with this but I think my mistress liquor deserves some love now and again, so let's keep it going.
So to those who say I need to stop. To the nay-sayers and those of such negative clout who have decided to adorn their white armor and warn me of the perils of my ways, I would like for you to kindly remove your footwear, imagine my own foot inside of it, and gently--yet with rigor--shove it up your ass. Who are you to take away a heavenly treasure of our ancestors because you had a great aunt who couldn't handle her vodka tonics at Thanksgiving dinner? Who are you to precipitate on my parade because you know a guy in jail for drinking and driving three times?
You know there's a reason that beer is gold... probably to do with wheat and brewing and what not, but in a purely metaphorical sense beer is gold because it is to be treasured! Bourbon is amber because just like the sweet drooling caramel straight from a candy shop in the Big Easy it is sweet and deserves to be cherished and enjoyed. Vodka and gin are clear because they are meant to disappear (Also in a literal sense, I wouldn't shed a tear... I think there's some rhyming going on here.)
I'm not disparaging the people who are telling you to be careful because you should, so should I. But enjoying alcohol, and having an alcohol problem are such wildly different ends of the spectrum and the masses are too quick to jump on their 'you might be an alcoholic' train. "All aboard, motherfuckers! First stop, Killjoy! Capital of South Texas Baptist Town!" I've met my share of alcoholics in my life. These are the people who wake up and need a drink. The people who pour gin in their coffee at the office so that the scent can't be detected. The people who are face-down at the dive bar because none of the respectable places will serve them any more. Those are the alcoholics and they have my deepest sympathies because they abused this beautiful gift to the point of no return. Just like a Happy Meal or an acid trip, too much of a good thing will rot you from the inside out and oh how they rot. You can see it in their bloodshot eyes, and their slow shambling gait like the dead sprung from the ground to walk amongst the livers of the living.
But I dear reader, am no alcoholic and I rebuke the term and cast shame upon those who wield it with such haphazard blows.
I am an alcohol enthusiast.
Bud Lite and Bourbon County.
Four Roses and Pappy Van Winkle.
From the last dregs at the warm bottom of the fraternity keg to the first gracious peaty burn of a freshly poured twenty-three year scotch, I love it all, and I cherish it like the most precious of family jewels.
And I didn't learn my lesson of use versus abuse through first hand experience, no sir, I watched the Icarus of the world who flew too close to the Grey Goose sun and learned from their mistakes. Alcohol is not life, but I'll be damned if it doesn't make my life just that much better. Am I drunk while writing this? You bet your ass I am, and I'm proud of it.
So the overtly cautious bastards of His Most Heavenly Buzzkill Party can throw their warnings and consternations back into their LaCroix river, for no good story has ever begun with the words "I ordered a diet coke". Me and my legion of alcohol-swilling, good-timing, waking-up-to-a-headache-and-a-missing-car degenerates will stick to our Sunday morning mimosas, and you and yours can enjoy your coffee with coconut creamer and glazed donuts. You pray on your side of the wall, and we shall prey on ours.