Who The Fuck Gives Up Booze In 40 Degree Heat: #NoNothingNovember Sucks Balls

Three weeks ago I was sunning myself in the warm glow of self-righteousness.

Oh yes, I thought sanctimoniously, it will be easy.  Alcohol is a fool’s drug, opiate of the masses, ale of the unwashed, sedater of the hordes, and other assorted lordly metaphors.

I, being of strong mind and stronger body, will have no trouble easing myself off such a lowly, and frankly, pitifully stupefying liquid, I thought humbly.  Such is the strength of my resolve that amber ales will quake in their tall, icy glasses and think frothily: “I have no hope of being quaffed in this place!”

It was all so simple in the cool mornings and warm boozy days of October.  Days rolled by without effort, always toward an afternoon of cool golden bitterness, with sides of juicy charred meat and ridiculously drunk conversation.  Toward the end of that beautiful month of sordid love affairs with Stella Artois and Coronas with lime and salt I dreamed of what I thought was a better place:

A month without beer.

Now, I think of myself as a reasonably intelligent man.  I’ve calculated the precise parabola the Earth traces as one looks at the sun.  I’ve created businesses and raised children.  I have even cooked a fucking mean chicken boscaiola. Even though I cannot for the life of me spell it.  But for some reason unbeknownst to me, the fabled nature of my eisteinian intellect failed to inform me of a slight problem with my plan.

That being, November in Australia is STEAMINGLY, INSANELY, HOT.

The last week has been utter hell on earth.  Day after day of close to 40 degree heat (that’s 104 Fahrenheit for the Seppos) has left me standing at the fridge, door in hand, staring lovingly, nay, lustily at the ribbons of condensation forming spitefully on my beer.

I’ve spent afternoons thinking of nothing but whetting my lips upon a cold one, inhaling draughts of cooling relaxing coma-inducing lager until the heat is nothing but a fading, laughable memory.

But, my resolve is strong.  I shall not, I will not, I cannot.  It would be personally mortifying to so blatantly break my own promise.  I decided, and, though a slightly stupid time to make such a heartbreaking decision, I stand by it.

Fuck you, #NoNothingNovember.  I won’t be so silly next year.