The who knews about approaching 30

In my last few months of my twenties I have found myself in a cathartic state. Where was the fortune cookie a few years ago that said "At 30 you will be in therapy". Thats one to get on a date I'm sure. I've reached the oh so important point in my life where I am confronted with the Oroville in me. No, I am not losing teeth, and no, I am not subsisting off of payday loan check cashing places. I am a flourishing addict. Not unlike a caterpillar emerging from the cocoon as a butterfly and taking to the sky only to fly into a beer bottle and drown in beer. Heaven? yes, and no. I am apparently a red flag for a beginning problem drinker. I'm sure if you know me, then you probably are nodding as you read this. My waspy jokes about "everything is better with a cocktail" can only suffice as a gay novelty for so long I suppose. We all have to see the valley around us, dolls or not. So yes...I have to control how much I drink. It's something I have struggled with...well...since I started drinking. Knowing that I don't wanna be that guy. I wanna have some wine while I cook or 2 bottles of champagne...you know....keep it loose. Doesn't everyone go out 3-4 times a week? How many margaritas is too many? 6? that seems like a rational number. Who knew therapy would confront you with shit. Isn't is it supposed to just point out how fascinating and epically troubled you are? Isn't is supposed to be masturbatory for the self serving. "Tell me more about my troubles and how wouuuuuunnnddeeeed I am". Right? Nope...What I now know is that I am on the path to puffy-ness. Drunken sloppy sad faced drunkard. You can sometimes tell yourself that its part of the creative process. "Well maybe I wanna be that guy thats all fucked up and makes shit thats all Nina Simone like". Even though all you're making lately is hashbrown sandwiches. But they are damn soulful hashbrown sandwiches. So its 2 am...christmas...and I am a bottle and half deep in cava. I am supposed to only be having 4 drinks at a time, 3 times a week. So I am supposed to be boring. However....thats not as boring as "Have you seen my 90 days sober coin...its pretty shiney!". Therapy is great, don't get me wrong. But at the end of this, do I get to be the Dali Llama or something? I am gonna be so serene that I hover? If not...At Least I will be the only bum under the bridge with a bottle of Gruet under my arm, and penchant for Truffle butter. What I will have to do for that Truffle butter....remains to be seen. YAY 30!