This morning, a forgotten pot of pinto beans soaking overnight greeted me like an old friend who crashed on my couch without notice. Soon enough, my blade was echoing off drywall, and right there, amid the chop-chop chaos, a brutal question sucker-punched me: why had booze always had such a goddamned grip on me?

Chills crawled up my spine, setting nerves ablaze. This time around, the lesson is clear as gin: judgment is always a sick reflection staring back at you from the bathroom mirror. We see in others precisely what we loathe most deeply within ourselves.

And there I stood, blade poised mid-air, humbled and amused, beans simmering like some karmic stew, truth bubbling furiously beneath.