From the Grass Roots

Drinking whisky is the hardest work in the world. I didn't die drunk and go to hell like some drinkers, but I ended up with an "enlarged ego" and it was like an egg, of no use until it was busted. My love for a bottle had drawn me in upon myself. My world was a narrowing circle. My interests shut off humanity. I received sympathy from no one. My soul was squeezed dry. I was a miserable creature living in a strange and miserable world, self-conscious, self-centered, thinking only in terms of myself, having no standards but those of selfishness. That is spiritual death.