I’m glad my liver is hidden inside somewhere inside my torso, muffled by skin, unable to speak. If drawn like some moralistic Disney cartoon, my liver would likely spout complaints set to a montage of hazy IPAs, imperial stouts, pilsners cascading toward my stomach like an endless bubbly waterfall.
“I’m tired of hops,” my cartoon liver would sigh. “What do you have against water anyway?”
Nothing, as long as it contains malt, hops, and yeast. It’s my job to judge and taste, to divine the delicious from the drain pours. But let’s be real. No matter how hard I squint, barrel-aged pastry stouts aren’t sitting atop the food pyramid. Excess pleasure becomes the everyday, humdrum gluttony on par with devouring donuts for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.
As the years recede in a rearview mirror, I increasingly welcome temporary breaks from…