The Infinite Starr

There is a throne no respectable person wants.

It isn’t made of gold.

It isn’t earned.

It isn’t admired.

It’s bolted to the floor of a bar.

And every night someone climbs onto it believing they’ve become royalty.

Nobody likes a bad drunk who thinks they’re a good one.

Matter of fact…

Nobody likes a bad drunk except another bad drunk.

Everyone else is simply tolerating them until they leave.

Alcohol has an odd way of introducing itself.

It doesn’t usually announce, “Congratulations. You’re becoming an alcoholic.”

No.

It whispers.

“You deserve this.”

“You had a hard day.”

“Just one more.”

Before long, you’re not drinking because you’re celebrating.

You’re drinking because you can’t stand yourself sober.

That’s the part nobody wants to admit.

The world isn’t better after the next drink.

Your brain simply convinces you it is.

Everyone else is watching you become louder, sloppier, and considerably dumber while you’re convinced you’ve somehow become more interesting.

You haven’t.

You’re just drunk.

There seems to be this strange belief that because alcohol is legal, it can’t be that bad.

So is sugar.

So are cigarettes in plenty of places.

Legal has never meant intelligent.

It just means someone can sell it to you.

There is something almost fascinating about watching a person who has spent twenty years marinating themselves in cheap beer still believe they’re the prize.

They’re perched on the same barstool they’ve been warming since flip phones were popular, telling the same stories that get bigger every year while their life gets smaller.

The funniest person in the room?

Only in their own head.

The best-looking one?

Time settled that argument years ago.

Life of the party?

No.

Usually the reason everyone quietly leaves early.

Their face tells the truth long before their mouth does.

The lines are deeper.

The eyes are duller.

The skin has surrendered.

The body is waving a white flag while the ego is still demanding another round.

And somehow…

They still think they’re winning.

Winning what exactly?

A tab?

A DUI?

Another broken relationship?

Another apology nobody believes?

A job they’re barely hanging onto because every paycheck already belongs to the liquor store before it ever reaches the bank?

Congratulations.

What a trophy.

There is nothing more exhausting than listening to a drunk explain how everyone else is the problem.

It’s never the bottle.

It’s the boss.

The ex.

The economy.

The neighbors.

The government.

Mercury in retrograde.

The weather.

Anything except the twelve empty cans rolling around in the backseat.

Accountability and addiction rarely share the same address.

Then come the opinions.

Drunks love opinions.

Usually loud ones.

Usually repeated six times.

Usually directed at people who have accomplished twice as much while drinking none as often.

That’s the irony.

The drunk sitting on a barstool loves looking down on people actually climbing mountains.

Imagine believing you’ve got life figured out while arguing with a jukebox at midnight.

If you’ve ever been the only sober person in a room full of drunks, you’ve seen it.

The volume rises.

The intelligence falls.

Every joke gets repeated.

Every story gets exaggerated.

Every insult gets meaner.

Every compliment gets faker.

And somehow every drunk believes they’re hiding it beautifully.

They’re not.

They’re fooling exactly one person.

Themselves.

People love to say drunk words are sober thoughts.

Maybe.

Or maybe alcohol simply strips away the costume.

Either way, eventually everyone gets introduced to the real personality underneath.

The bitterness.

The jealousy.

The insecurity.

The need to be the loudest because they have nothing meaningful to say.

The constant performance begging strangers to notice them because somewhere along the way they stopped noticing themselves.

Here’s the uncomfortable truth.

Being drunk doesn’t make you more attractive.

It doesn’t make you funnier.

It doesn’t make you wiser.

It doesn’t make you younger.

It just makes you believe all those things while everyone else wonders how much longer they’ll have to listen before you finally stumble out the door.

There are twelve steps for a reason.

Not because someone wanted to make recovery complicated.

Because denial can build a staircase almost impossible to climb.

The first step isn’t quitting alcohol.

The first step is admitting you’re not nearly as charming as you’ve been telling yourself after six beers.

Some people spend years building careers.

Some spend years building families.

Some spend years building character.

Others spend decades building a reputation as the person everyone secretly hopes won’t show up.

Those are very different legacies.

One earns respect.

The other earns eye rolls.

The bottle never made anyone larger than life.

It only made them believe they were while shrinking everything that actually mattered.