Saying goodbye, not quite....

I guess I have had my fair share, actually rather more than my fair share of disasterous relationships and non-relationships. I am the sort of person who pushes averages up. But my steady companion through thick and thin has been the bottle of daaru. I started my affair with the daaru, god man, I was in Class 8 or something. Class 8-D St. Columba's School 1992-93, when the concept of facial hair was just starting to dawn on us, when some of my classmates hadn't even started to mastrubate forget have a sexual relationship, or any relationship. A time when my then girlfriend's idea of sin was sharing the same spoon.
Anyway, thanks to the beautiful fact that Bengali Mom and Egoistic Bengali Dad could not make their marriage work, my parents were delightfully separated. Now, this meant I effectively had two homes (it also meant I had to see my fathers various girlfriends - Mosquito, Cockroach were among my more polite names for them - but that is another series of tales). So when Mom used to go off on her trips to Ahmedabad Brotherman and moi used to head to Daddy's. Now Daddy is a certified drinker (alcoholic would be too harsh on the man - KPS Gill is an alcoholic, Dad is regular, but his liver still works) so there was always enough daaru at home. So one day, I don't know why, I just poured myself a Black Label (I remember this well, and I always had expensive taste) and gulped it down. The subsequent screaming thanks to a smoldering throat was not planned. But, I practiced, made the drinks stronger and drank them slower. Dad never got home before 2 or 3 if we kids were around.
So, through the remaining three and a half odd years of school I guess I managed to make half my class drink, smuggling rum or vodka into Class. By the end of that, going to St. Stephen's was the WORST thing I could have done for both liver and stomach, because that is when obsession with beer began. Plus more Rum, Vodka and cheap desi Whiskey. To make matters worse, I became a journalist and even though I assiduously avoided Press Club, and the sight of Suheetda in HT scared the lived bejabers out of me (This is a guy who awoke with three pegs did three more every afternoon and partied at Press Club every night. He was never not drunk at any point of his waking life for the last ten years. I believe he works in CSE now and still hasn't cut down) the evening parties and Press bbriefings meant that I ended up drinking anyhow because Self-Control and I were not on good terms.
But, now I have decided that 'Drinking only on weekends, and no more than three drinks, preferably wine.' Not a sign of age, but I must cut weight down and though I'm not saying this to impress folks, I have to lose the flab. Hey, I already feel a bit better. Anyway, my cigarette consumption is down to three a day, plan to get that down to two, I haven't smoked a joint for over a week, not because I don't have none, but because I shouldn't. And this is not because people have been sitting on my head. Mom, Friendgirl, Boss, assorted friends have all been bugging me to do something about this for years, but I didn't care, but somehow now I think I should.
Thanks for the preaching Rums, I have to be reminded from time to time, and Mom doesn't need to know I blog, ASG knoiws and has read, but Mom will cut me out from any will that she writes if she reads this and Brotherman shouldn't get everything.