When tired, I need a coffee. When socially scared, I need a drink. When unwanted, I need to shop. When bored, I need to get stoned. Something outside of me will satiate the want inside of me.
I am a child of the 1980s. Prescriptions and palliatives can solve our ills, one pill per day. The harried wealthy of San Francisco likewise trade money for relief. We throw money at booze, brunch, barbituates–anything and everything to ensure a good time for the shortest of resources: time.
I medicate myself on the weekends from coffee in the mornings to booze in the afternoon (sometimes before noon). A basal amount of stimulant, antidepressant, and intoxicant means feeling something exciting on my precious days off.
I fight medication. I’m cutting out alcohol. I’m cutting down coffee. I’m resisting the urge to spend. I no longer want something outside of me to fix something inside of me. When tired, I can sleep. When self-conscious, well, everyone is self-conscious.
No beer, no coffee, no shopping means fewer places to go in San Francisco. Like an old man, I prefer parks, the zoo, and wanders around the block. I have a surfeit of the most important resource: friends.