Sometimes one finishes a beer, likely their last one of the night, but right before they retreat to their solitude, they crack another beer, and maybe sip on it once or twice. This beer comes with them into the night, eventually ending up alone and ignored on a horizontal surface. 

But it doesn’t matter because this story isn’t about the beer, christ.

In the morning you roll over and see the beer and it’s all pathetic and flat and shit and reminds you of how pathetic and flat you are right then, so you start drinking it.

And bam, you’re an alcoholic. But really, that’s not what it’s about. You’re just like everyone, you’re living day to day, and working through shit as it comes at you. As much as you’d like to anticipate and manage everything in your life, there comes a time when you have to connect with the people around you and…feel things.

I.e. the dopamin from this one last prospective beer.

The inbetween-eer is a testament to tomorrow. A token of the future. I will wake up, an while it will be a new day, I will not be a new person. This beer will be right there waiting for me like the flat bitch it is.