Self-diagnosis

I'm not talking about groping tit or nut to feel for the Big C. Nay, my concern is the dreaded and highly disturbing fear of empty glasses-Cenosillicaphobia. Sure there are larger and more complex issues for the beer-drinking body politic, but none more personal than this demon. While we drink with a vengeance, let us prosecute the war against this scourge.

Many times I get a feeling of unease as I gape at a rapidly depleted pint. Dear Lord, what if it goes dry soon? Where is the bartender? Am I expected to fill my own mug, thus confronting my worst nightmare? Awful.

When I first came to grips with my illness, I was just out of college. Before seeking gainful employment, I decided that during the interlude I would two-fist frequently. My mind recoiled in horror at the obvious problem belied by this otherwise noble effort. Should I sip both at the same time? Is it cheating to chug one and concentrate on the other? These rotten questions were pushed aside as the bottom came closer and closer...mocking me...blah, blah, blah.

Fortunately, upon the advice of charlatans and witch-doctors I discovered that the best way to end this crippling and debilitating fear by closing ones eyes and then gulp your way to metaphysical bliss. Speak proudly to the barmaid for another. Tell your asshole friend to get his shit to the kegerator. Stroll proudly into the store for more booze early in the morning. Don't judge me, retiree, I've got an illness and I'm out of beer. This is post-modern America after all, everyone's got some baggage like this.

I would propose a therapy group, but honestly I can't help any of you. Recommend instead you go to the Brewery tonight and let those $1.50 pints salve your battered soul. Explore your rich inner landscape and spear your inner demon right in the taint.