3. There is a very fine line between 'hobby' and 'mental illness.'
My name is H., and I am a hobby distiller.
It started out small and innocent. A couple batches of ginger beer here, a light ale there, and I was able to control it. Well, I thought I could.
But then I got internet access and started being influenced by the hardcore guys, with their big shiny columns, and boasts of unheard purity and endless experiments with exotic tastes. I was swallowed up by the mysterious language, the furtive clandestine meetings in cyberspace, and I desperately wanted to learn the secret handshake (which they never taught me, crafty beggars, they knew how to keep a man strung out, always wanting more)...
Before I knew it, I was up all night divining the dark art of rum oils and head cuts, arguing about the relative merits of a 6" double helix versus a 12 turn double parallel condenser coil, whether to add the tomato paste before the citric acid or after, and exactly how many sugar angels could dance on the head of an %abv pin.
I began casing food wholesalers to see if I could save a few cents a kilo off sugar, and pleading with them to sell me food grade molasses in bulk, but they had seen my tragic type before and refused to deal with me, so I had to go underground for the hard but contaminated stuff.
Everything in the kitchen and workshop began to look like still parts. Every garbage bin morphed into a fermenter. Bottles were grabbed from feeding babes, and the clink of empties could be heard for miles around. The neighbours began to gossip.
My family left me, I was fired from job after job and became a recluse, the dishes piled up in the sink, my garden became a wild jungle, my dog disowned me and began running with the pack down the street, and my self-respect vanished, like a puff of ethanol vapour in the wind.
Today, I am recovering. I am down to 6 hours a day on the distilling sites. I can last nearly a week without the urge to ferment overwhelming me. I no longer spend hours gazing lovingly at my still. I have re-established contact with my family, though they still will not visit. Feeding babes are once more safe, and the local grocery and hardware stores have resumed taking my checks (though reluctantly, and i had to put down a large security deposit).
My dog ended up hitching a lift across a couple of states with an kind elderly couple, and has never been seen in these parts again.
And I have no regrets!
Be safe.
Be discreet.
And have fun.