I was riding along in a car with my old Portsmouth friend Ramo (I knew Ramo for a couple years around 1970-71). When Ramo pulled out a green bottle of beer, I had the feeling he was going to a party and I thought I might like to go with him. Ramo opened the beer, took a drink and asked me if I would like some. His offer sounded tempting. It had been almost a year since I had had anything alcoholic to drink. It seemed obvious that alcohol was no problem for me, so I didn't see why I couldn't take a drink now and then. It might be a little embarrassing explaining to my good friend, Kim (a woman a few years younger than I whom I first met in Portsmouth in 1977), if I drank anything, since she was so anti-alcohol, but it really seemed quite harmless.
So I took the bottle Ramo had opened and without further thought, tipped it to my lips and took a big swallow. Then I handed the bottle back to Ramo. That wasn't bad. It had seemed refreshing, but actually it hadn't had much taste to it.
Now that I had done that, I didn't see why I couldn't smoke a little marijuana. We could probably get some from Walls. Of course it had been a very long time since I had smoked any marijuana. Going on three years.
But what exactly was going on here? Had I really taken that drink of beer? I had. Terrible. I couldn't believe I had actually done that. What was wrong with me? It had felt so good having gone so long without drinking; in an instant I had blown the whole thing. The idea of starting all over again not drinking seemed so depressing. I felt lousy.
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