I is for inebriated

Dear beer,
You are lovely. I'm sitting here on my front porch, looking at my beautiful Atlanta skyline, reading some Vonnegut, and enjoying the shit out of you.
I once had this crazy idea that you tasted like horse piss. I, eventually, took my baby steps into wheat beers and now have developed the pallet for a bitter ipa.
You see, I'm uninsured. I'm an uninsured anxiety freak. You help out. You help out a lot, buddy. One of you in the evening before bed keeps me from staying up all night with intrusive thoughts and arguments with that one guy that insulted me seven years ago.

Listen: I don't need you. That's not what this is about. This is my way of saying thank you. My country has a shitty health care system, I'm horribly poor, and have been blessed with bad chemicals.
I've had a particularly interesting brain bug day and you are doing a wonderful job. I don't even care that I could, at any moment, spontaneously combust and set all that I love on fire.
Don't care at all.
And it's because of you.

Love,
Kendra