
It starts out innocently enough, as you nip away at little bottles of whiskey on the sly. The burn is inviting, reminding you of old Westerns where the tough heroes down without wincing. The warm relief surges through you, and you feel whole.
As the weeks go on, you realise they were all drinking tea, and everything you thought you figured on from old movies was clearly wrong-headed. There's no honour in your drinking, nothing heroic about being a drunk.