When I was young I loved red wine, a good in-your-face red that stained my teeth and shriveled my tongue, I sat in the bar I could walk to from my hovel in south San Francisco and wrote to him on the back of a paper placemat: "cheap red wine will always have a place in my heart" and I thought it would be true for ever but then one day it wasn't. One day the taste was bile and tears; I, who will still drink vinegar mixed with salt water for the sheer joy of it can no longer stomach the sour retch of red wine; even the smell turns me.
When I was young I loved beer, I loved the ritual of popping off the top or of finding someone who knew how to tap it right and swearing feudal loyalty, I loved collecting beer mats, the toasting rituals of different cultures, information about the breweries. And I loved the beer itself, the slight bitterness, the way I felt full and refreshed in equal measure, a warm slice of bread in liquid form. And then one day it wasn't good any more. I told her: "this is one of the greatest tragedies of my life" and she said my life must not be that bad, but it was a loss. One day I couldn't stand it: the smell, the taste, the fermented sick of it.
When I was young I will not say that I loved this thing but I tolerated it in people I loved. But can you blame me now, now that I am older, for pushing myself back from the table and saying: I have had my fill. My body soft at the edges as if blurred, my mind though now so sharply honed on the whetstone of enough. Enough. I am not critical if other people like it but please understand that for me this is like an allergy for which there is no treatment: I simply cannot take it, the dark green yellow of this particular behavior; the cocked head, the pointed finger, the backpack of your privilege, the litany of your knowledge. Enough, thanks.