When I finally decided to face my demons and quit drinking a few months back, I didn’t realize how long and challenging the journey to full recovery would be. The urge to take a drink still rears its ugly head from time to time, I have a lot of bad dreams, and the list of people I have to make amends to for my lousy behavior when intoxicated seems to go on forever.

But more than anything else, I think the hardest part about being sober is always getting out of bed with such clear and vivid memories of whatever transsexual man I accidentally had intercourse with the previous evening.

Because really, it’s not something I’m proud of.

Back in my drinking days, I’d usually be so trashed in any given foreign port toward the end of the evening that when I finally realized the person I was anally penetrating from behind in some dark Pattaya Beach alley was a "he" rather than a "she," I’d just blame it on the booze and chalk it off as an embarrassing lesson learned which I’d have almost zero ability to recollect the next morning.