Bill Bryson

You know, Bryson, I wasn't actually hiding this. I wasn't lying about being dry either. The thing is, Bryson, I love to drink. Everything about it. I love the taste. And that buzz you get after you've had a couple. I love the smell of the tavern, right down to the urinal cakes. Hmm. But instead of going into the taverns like everybody else, I go home to my little apartment, and heat my TV dinner, and feel all virtuous like I'm supposed to.

But you know, night after night it's hard to persuade yourself that you're living a rich and thrilling existence. I mean, if they had a fun-o-meter the needle wouldn't exactly be jumping into the orgasmic zone. You know what I'm saying?

I mean, there's just this hole in my life where drinking used to be.

I know I can't drink. I mean, one drink will lead to 10. And the next thing, I'll find myself underneath a bridge somewhere.

That's why I carry this. To remind myself that I can. Or maybe I carry it in case I can't.

The only way of looking at it. As far as I'm concerned, we walked the Appalachian Trail. We walked it in the heat, we walk it in the snow, we walked it until our feet bled. We hiked the Appalachian Trail, Bryson.

In your absence, my romantic life has taken a turn for the better. Remember the laundromat? Her name is Beulah.

Yeah, seriously. And she's got a beautiful body. Buried under two hundred pounds of fat. But then, you know I kinda like a little meat on the bone.

Never buy underpants for a woman you don't know.