I often feel like my liver is a reservoir for past mistakes. Lately I have been thinking a lot about my own alcohol consumption and how memory doesn’t really draw in the artefacts of my inebriation.
Sometimes these artefacts live and breathe beyond my own bod: dogs for example. But eventually they move away and what am I left with really? I mean I have the memory of the day after, and, if there is material evidence I can sometimes piece together what might have been. This leaves a doily though: and I have never been one for crochet. But my liver is a knitter: it knows what I’ve been up to! Maybe I can treat my gut like a filing cabinet and pull out the odd sock here and there.
Liver: I like you, but lately you don’t like me.
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