Dear Alcohol,
I became acquainted with you when I first moved into the dorms over two years ago, where you lived in mini refrigerators and warm kegs. At first I was shy; then I realized you had given me the gift of shamelessness and I felt obligated to accept it. With you, I was never at a loss of words in any social setting. Each trivial event became the most exciting endeavor of my life, and everyone around me was my best friend. You showed me how to dance sexily in bars, you showed me how to move my behind in coordination with the crotch of an equally drunk counterpart; you unveiled the simple beauty of stumbling to my room with hair so penetrated with cigarette smoke one's olfactories easily could have tricked them into believing they were standing next to a tobacco farm. You gave me the gift of sleep; because of you, I slumbered till late afternoon and awoke with a mission to locate as many fat-laden, carb-filled foods I could find. Dearest Alcohol, you made me cool. I felt like I had been born again under your hazy reign, and being able to talk to other college students on Monday about the memories (or lack thereof) formed over the weekend was priceless.

But, like any good thing, our relationship has come to an end, and a soiled one at that. I no longer enjoy gulping down the intoxicating brew that so many others find invigorating. You see, Alcohol, your taste is foul. Beer is reminiscent of chilled urine, and vodka is quite like sticking a ball of fire down my throat. When I smell the pungent odor of hard alcohol I begin to gag, even without taking a sip. My stomach is weak and cannot take your harsh poundings any longer. My body is growing tired of being dehydrated and the sleep you provide is a mockery; I spend all night twisting, turning, having strange dreams and willing myself not to vomit. Oh, the vomiting. Oh, the deceptive vice that is alcohol and the uniquely horrid experience of regurgitation. Alcohol, why must you leave me on the floor of the bathroom, face in bowl, spewing out my insides? And often times once is not enough; I find myself running back and forth from bed to bathroom until I'm sure I'm vomiting my own organs. And your deathly grasp still holds me for the entire day; I cannot eat, run or burp without being reminded that I was with you the night before. You're like a lusty and spiteful lover, and I'm quitting you.

Don't take this the wrong way, Alcohol. I'll meet you for my twenty-first birthday and I'm sure we'll see each other again over the years. But gone are the days where I pour you down my throat, eager for the social lubrication you tout. I hate the way you make me feel but there are plenty of others who don't, and your legacy will live on in their inebriated hearts.

Sincerely,
Hangover-free