Clarence S. maps out the specific impulsive nature of the alcoholic arguing that they are a breed of cats who operate on emotion rather than logic. He recounts his own wreckage—being dumped in New York City in winter without an overcoat surviving by sleeping in tractor-trailers for fifty cents a night and drinking seven-cent pints of rail.
He dismantles the idea of alcoholism as a habit or a taste framing it as a terminal illness requiring a strict prescription. Clarence S. walks through the 12 Steps as a process of admission submission and restitution emphasizing that the first nine steps are a one-time cleanup while the final three are for daily construction.
He closes with the miracle of his own arrival in Akron having walked into his first meeting in February wearing one black shoe and one brown shoe.
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