A tiny voice

keeps telling me that maybe, just maybe, I could have some rosé this summer. I know, I know. But this voice is a new one, more sneaky, more calm, more “oh I don’t know, it’s not a big deal, I really don’t care but maybe perhaps perhaps why not just try one?”

And the thing is I really don’t have any good answers other than it’s a very bad idea and I’m an alcoholic and it would lead to disaster, but all this is said in a very detached voice. I don’t FEEL it anymore.

630 days and counting.

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