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Farther from Home

I drank my first beer when I was four. I cannot recall if I enjoyed it, but I sat down at that small plastic table in my small plastic chair and I drank the whole beer. Of course, I do not remember anything after. Tequila I started when I was twelve, and wine was somewhere in between. I wrote all this off as being French-Canadian. That is until, at twenty-one, I found myself quite lost. On a search for what I hoped would be a soul, I discovered the only place I’d ever known. The only place I’d ever known was the bottom of a bottle. Be it rum or rye, scotch or wine, tequila all mine, and beer was just fine. Now, at twenty-three, I am still as lost as ever and have not met my soul. Yet, I know now that I will get better. I know now, I will get better because when I travel some place new, at least I do not drink my way back home.