Please enjoy my extremely professional, surreptitiously-taken photo of this stunning embodiment of Generation Zed.  Even during the sloppy early 90s when we were all draped in baggy, layered, grunge-inspired Value Village gear, this whole look would have been very worthy of the timeless Point-And-Laugh.

I can’t write at length here since things have been somewhat busy and distracting for the last small while, but I will.  I’ve got several balls in the air, and not just the sexy male kind. 

It has been two weeks since the spray-tanned clown took office down south, and the guy isn’t wasting any time in attempting to alienate absolutely everyone on the planet save for, perhaps, Israel and his voter base.  I wrote about the vicious, enraged, nearly irrational reaction on the part of the Democrats post-election in November, and it amused me at the time, because everything about the split-down-the-middle populace of the USA reminds me of The Sneetches by Dr. Seuss, by way of Animal Farm, straight down the Brave New World interstate.  It is a travesty to be located in such cheek-by-jowl geographic proximity to that country, but I honestly, truly feel sorry for its citizens: Half of them seem to fervently, viciously belong to a mind-numbingly dangerous cult, while the other is floundering, desperately unsure of what they stand for anymore, apart from not wanting anything to do with that cult.  

The fish-lipped Cheeto appears to have learned one word in the last few months (“tariffs!”), and is determined to fling it around as much as possible, so proud of himself for this new addition to his limited lexicon.  It all reminds me very, very much of this skit.  Since January 20, he has successfully angered about two billion people between Canada, Mexico, and China, and he’s just getting started.  Some might say that, thanks to Justin’s ridiculous focus on carbon taxes, identity politics, and his globalist partners, we’ve put ourselves into a vulnerable, extremely weak position that the Republican predators are more than thrilled to intimidate, pounce upon, and bat around with malice, much like my kitty Annie used to do with the mice in my dodgy old East Van apartment.  Some might be correct.  Suddenly, JT cares about Canada and Canadians after a decade of absolutely having his nonconsensual way with our clenched buttholes.  However, it’s more than that: the reigning party down south is a kleptocracy on a terrifying mission of global imperialism, spearheaded by the wealthiest men on the planet, including one in particular who is already fervently eyeballing other planets to conquer and ruin.  

And never mind that bloviating septuagenarian real-estate mogul calling himself the king of the world. It’s Eyeliner Vance who actually frightens me the most.  

We have to get through this together, somehow.  And the best way to do this is to keep your power, keep your strength, keep your stable frame of mind and your wits about you.  Canada decided that one way to stick it to the States was to remove all American red-state booze from its shelves, which has got to be simultaneously the most sensible and retarded thing I’ve ever heard of.  This is how much of a stranglehold the drink has on us; this is actually considered a threat to their economy and livelihood, and a way to encourage my country to Drink Canadian.  I’m not against anyone consuming alcohol, as I’m certainly not an illogical individual pushing her agenda and ideologies onto anyone.  I had a bloody fantastic time partying, until I found myself chasing the dragon to reclaim those honeymoon years that will never, ever come back. All I am is someone who has experienced the needless punishment that accompanies alcohol abuse, and I can tell you that it will never get any better or easier or more enjoyable.  It gets worse–torturous, even– the older you grow.  

If you can control and regulate your intake, you are made of different stuff than I am.  However, if your sole mission is to get shithoused every time you crack open a bottle, it’s going to become more and more difficult to step away from it.  I promise. And once you’re in the cycle, the pit, the hole, your life is utterly controlled by this toxic lunacy.

I suppose this is why I wrote a couple of long entries detailing what really goes on at A.A. meetings, and I’m still not finished, although I feel I would be belabouring my point if I continued to describe what a meeting is like.  I believe I made it clear.  I believe I have done all I can do in order to show that Alcoholics Anonymous is in no way proper medical treatment for this disorder, contrary to what many people in the dark like to believe.  Due to the fact that it’s been hyped and regarded as the ultimate solution to alcohol-use disorder by the media, by rehab centres, and by our justice system, A.A. is truly the only way that normies (that’s what non-alcoholics are called in The Program) think that a problem drinker can quit.  I’ve said everything I have to say about meetings.

…apart from how they wrap up.  I didn’t tackle this part.  The conclusion is where I always got extremely uncomfortable, and why I would usually duck out about five minutes before the hour so I wouldn’t have to deal with it.  For adherents to The Program, this was the bonding time, the reinforcement of togetherness and commonality, the glue that kept people from unraveling altogether.  For me, however, I never stopped getting squicked-out.  And that’s because I don’t particularly enjoy standing in a circle, holding hands with complete strangers, especially if those strangers are alcoholic men.

(I didn’t address the Thirteen-Steppers, did I?)

Once the hour is nearly up–with a break at the halfway mark where a basket is passed around to collect money used for I Don’t Know What, since most meetings are held for free in churches–someone will read the closing remarks.  These can vary, but here’s one example of wrapping things up by running the point into the ground:

Our book is meant to be suggestive only. We realize we know only a little. God will constantly disclose more to you and to us. Ask Him in your morning meditation what you can do each day for the man who is still sick. The answers will come, if your own house is in order. But obviously you cannot transmit something you haven’t got. See to it that your relationship with Him is right, and great events will come to pass for you and countless others. This is the Great Fact for us.

Abandon yourself to God as you understand God. Admit your faults to Him and to your fellows. Clear away the wreckage of your past. Give freely of what you find and join us. We shall be with you in the Fellowship of the Spirit, and you will surely meet some of us as you trudge the Road of Happy Destiny.

May God bless you and keep you until then.

Whew!  Look, you just want to stop pouring ethyl alcohol down your throat as a coping mechanism to deal with negative feelings.  Is God going to restore the relationships you set fire to, the friendships you compromised, the physical and mental health that have deteriorated, the years you dedicated to self-destruction?  

Everyone in attendance must then push aside the chairs, form a circle–sometimes there are only a handful of people present, sometimes there are dozens and dozens–and grasp the hand of the person next to them.  Look: I’ve had issues engaging in hand-holding even with boyfriends of mine, as it is somewhat rare to find someone who knows how to do it properly and with finesse.  It’s like a handshake that doesn’t end; much of the time you’ll get what feels like a bundle of damp, warm, flabby dead trout instead of a solid, confident grip.  This is pitiful enough with someone you know and care about, but try having to deal with it in a setting where you didn’t ask for or choose the individual next to you.  

I’ve had mild ablutomania since long before COVID, and the ending of A.A. meetings only sends it into overdrive.  

You must stand there, holding onto a couple of clammy patches of foreign flesh on either side of you, and recite the following Serenity Prayer in unison:

God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.

I have no issues with the Serenity Prayer; in fact, it’s something that everyone alive should recite to themselves at least once a day.  It has nothing to do with alcoholism, and everything to do with recognizing the things that are in your control, and making peace with that over which you shouldn’t expend needless energy and angst, as there is nothing you can personally.do about any of it.  It’s the hand-holding that I simply can’t abide or endure.

Everyone then usually holds their clasped hands up to the air, waving them around a little bit and chanting, “Keep coming back” or “It works if you work it” or “Here’s to another 24 [hours].”  

There is, finally, the socializing afterwards, which you’re pretty much expected to do if you’ve made it this far.  If you’re new to the meeting, you can count on someone usually approaching you to strike up a conversation.  Perhaps they’ll even give you their number if you need some moral support in your early days of vulnerable sobriety, which is all fine and wonderful in theory, but the objective of everyone there is to incorporate others into The Program.  You will not be able to call this person up in a fit of drunken shame or while enduring a sobbing hangover unless you are prepared to be mildly (or even forcibly) chastised and told in no uncertain terms that you need a sponsor and you need to do the steps.

You are not dealing with a professional.  You are dealing with another person who is going through the same faith-based rituals that you are trying out.  

I just didn’t get it.  It never worked for me.  There is nothing in a nearly century-old program that has not budged one iota since the 1930s that resonated with me for long-term sobriety.  

In my next entry, I will (or might) talk about treatment options for alcoholism, and why A.A. is not a model that fits everyone.  I must emphasize this, however: If you are or ever were part of The Program (although it is very much like this) and you have successfully stayed sober, I can do nothing except congratulate and admire you.  If Alcoholics Anonymous worked for you, I will never take that away from you, as I am a massive advocate of anything that keeps you away from problem drinking and substance dependency.  Some of the most stubborn, cynical, ravaged, grounded individuals I’ve encountered have found consistent long-term sobriety through The Program, although the success rate is a matter of pure speculation since there are no records kept of progress, participation, relapse rates, or longevity.  

That’s it for tonight.  As a questionable antidote to my header pic, take a look at this gang who were in town for the Taylor Swift weekend almost two months ago.  They were from Salt Lake City, with mom and her girls giving all sorts of wholesome realness in weary old Vancouver:

I assume they’re Mormons. They look approximately 1000% less haunted than any Doukhobor I know. 

Until next time, have something delicious to eat and remember that there is no forever.

Forever,

Nadya.