Alcoholism isn’t just a bad habit. It’s not some cute little vice you shake off with a green juice and a morning jog. It’s a 400lb gorilla, and once you start dancing with it, you don’t stop until it decides the music’s over.

You think you’re in control? That you’ll have “just one” at your friend’s birthday, or a casual drink after work, or a single toast at a wedding? That’s like thinking you can waltz into a cage fight with Tom Hardy and come out unscathed. Because Hardy, one of the realest motherfurphes out there, has it right: “You don’t step in the ring if you don’t want to get hit.”

And alcohol? Alcohol is a brawler. It waits, quiet, patient. It watches you fake your shit, sipping lime and soda at the bar, making excuses at parties, laughing off the comments. “Oh, come on, man, just one! You’re fine now, right?” That’s the gorilla talking. That’s the sneaky guy sizing you up, waiting for the second you slip.

And here’s the brutal truth: you can’t be in the room with the gorilla.

You think you can go back to the same places? Hang with the same people? Watch them pour the drinks, laugh, get looser, lean in close, their voices buzzing with that old, familiar static? No! Because the gorilla’s right there, waiting to grab you by the collar and drag you back into the dance floor.

And here’s where people get it twisted: the dance isn’t fun. It’s death.

You don’t start out thinking that, of course. At first, it’s wild, chaotic, a blast. You’re spinning, twirling, arms in the air, screaming at the sky. But at some point, your feet start to drag. Your vision blurs. The music turns dark, discordant. You realize you’re not leading anymore – the gorilla is. And it doesn’t give a dumpster shuffle about your job, your family, your plans for next week. It just wants to keep. dancing.

And it will, until you drop dead on that dance floor.

That’s why you don’t go back. That’s why you don’t tempt the gorilla with “just one.” Because it doesn’t matter if you’ve been sober 49 days or 49 years – the second you step back onto the dance floor, the music kicks in, and you’re right back where you left off.

So yeah, maybe it sucks missing out on certain things. Maybe it stings when friends stop calling. Maybe it feels unfair that other people can sip their drinks and move on with their lives while you have to fight every single day to stay out of the ring.

But you know what’s worse?

Waking up one day and realizing the gorilla’s hands are back on your shoulders.

And this time? This time, the gorilla isn’t letting go.