The cider is gone. My fridge is empty. I'm clean. Yeah, feeling pretty good about it. I've been weaning myself gradually, and by the time I got to the bottom of the last jug, last night, I was ready to kiss the addiction good-bye. The apple was off my back.
Now that I look back on the crazy month-long adventure, I see that it was not so much an addiction as an infatuation. There's a teary needy high-school quality about the whole affair (even the choice of word gives me away) that reminds me of the way I felt about a girl named Valerie in ninth grade. Ah, Valerie. Her hair was long and straight. She wore horn rims, and loafers with tassels. Her voice floats like whipped cream on the hot chocolate of my memory. I think her dad was a minister or something, and ... she was in love with someone else. George, his name was. I used to plan out ways to kill him. (Kidding, kidding. Actually, he was a nice guy. I think he's in insurance now.)
So like I say this cider thing is behind me now. I'm back on coffee, where I belong. Speaking of which, doesn't that guy in the picture scare you? I think there's a real creepy quality about him. Nowadays we drink coffee in coffee shops, before going to work. Back in the 50s you drank coffee at home before killing your wife. (Gee, there's a lot of violence to explain away in my brackets today. I must be going through something. Let me check ... no red circle on the calendar. I dunno what it is.)
F12 for me now. See you guys tomorrow.