With the buttocks exposed

A dinner without alcohol is much better to do without alcohol than a dance party without alcohol is my conclusion. I am therefore curious how it will fare for me next Friday when I go dancing in Arnhem. Now and then the old man crawls out of his hole and indicates that he would like a beer or a glass of wine next Friday.

Do I give him his way?

Because I have discovered another advantage of fitting, I don't believe I have come across this one yet. My gut responds just fine to not drinking alcohol. To all the reasons I already had for examining and possibly revising my habit, this, not entirely unimportant one, is added.

Anyway. The 22nd day already and nothing has been done with the 25 tips from Jacqueline van Lieshout. In any case, I had intended to write down some miserable ending alcoholic indulgences.

They come to mind regularly, yes, and at the most unexpected moments, too. And then disappear again into the caverns of my brain. They were situations I wouldn't have gotten into without alcohol. Wrong bars, wrong men and wrong, sad sex.

But also wrong moments and ditto company to pour out the heart. Such an evening often resulted in a dramatic one-act play that could last for hours and many bottles of wine.

Lingering problems for which a solution had to be devised, but which was postponed by the reassuring glass of wine. A dinner that was screaming because of a wrong comment and the ensuing discussion and which didn't end well because everyone was too far gone.


This is now pretty far behind me. I can't even remember my last close embrace of the toilet bowl. Good thing, too.

The previous breaks I took, with or without the help of IkPas, I was much more restless, much more looking for any kind of replacement. Anything to take that anxiety away.

Now that unrest is also sometimes there, but I know, thanks to the information we now have, that this unrest only lasts half an hour (with cigarettes it is 10 minutes).

That it's about.

Until next week…


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