Tonight -- briefly -- I would like to examine that particular balance of chemicals that influence our psychology. It is obvious to me, as indeed it should be to all that do not suffer from at least mild autism, that various personalities exist among us. The cheerful, the morose, the early-morning dynamo, the perpetual sloth. While in ages past these differences have been characterized as fundamental manifestations of one's *self* -- i.e., the soul -- one might argue, given today's knowledge of the chemical interactions of the brain, that it is simply a matter of... well... chemical interactions.

If the difference between joy and depression is the simple matter of a few organic molecules drifting around in your gray matter, what ramifications does this have on our view of ourselves?

For example, I have always considered myself something of a wet blanket. By way of a masterfully misplaced comment, or by simply exerting my monochrome presence, I can absolutely silence a lively conversation. Contrarily, stick a couple of drinks in me -- alcoholic or rich in sugar, either one seems to work fine -- and I am as jolly as my physical dimensions might suggest.

Such a transformation utterly disrupts my perception of myself. Which face of the coin is normal, and which ab? Which is "me," and which is "me on drugs"?

This invites a logical, if not entirely sensible, conclusion: if one's basal psychological state is one that they find undesirable, is it not their prerogative -- nay, their imperative -- to seek a new state in which they are content? When couched in these terms, whether this is achieved through the use of chemical, physical, or environmental inducements becomes a nearly academic consideration, subject only to the physical consequences on the rest of the body -- which, incidentally, may be considered as simply a physical vessel for this conflicted mind. Is this, then, a true example of "science to the soul's rescue"?
Of course, under these circumstances I view myself in a certain light, but my own personal sense of things is perforce warped under the aforementioned circumstances, so I might be externally perceived as a giant asshole with legs.

Ambulatory sphincters aside, I have always considered myself subject to a (metaphorical) two-drink minimum in order to access the experience otherwise known as "fun." Minus some kind of inducement, such social experiments have a distinctly calculated, intellectual element which, you might imagine, is no fun at all.

Given all this, might what some see as nascent alcoholism not simply be, in point of fact, a natural and effective form of self-medication? Oh well... what do I know, I'm bombed off my ass.

You stay classy, San Diego!