Perhaps it is the two glasses of pinot noir from the Kahul region of Moldova, that did not mix well with the Kermit Lynch (who you can always always trust) Corbieres, that lead me feel like I am a prime candidate for Buddhism.  What addictive illusion of the self led me to venture by Russia House while a Bolognese sauce simmered on the stove?  How much damage could I do, the cook thought, and the next day was a crippling headache.  You have to wonder, what do they put in some wines?  What are their methods?  Is this the punishment due from drinking cheap wine (I admit it)?  Well...  YEAH.  duh.  Oh, but it shouldn't have to be that way, one laments as his head throbs with a Chernobyl-like vibe.  (In France, they have very strict laws about all aspects of wine-making.)  And this is also a lesson:  pick one wine, and stick with it, enjoy the godly benefits of marriage.

But yes, surely there must be some illusion, that leads me to think I will find something and the night's return is always low, and the next day a horrible price to pay...  Compassion, a lack of compassion, I think, which is perfectly tied to the illusion of a concrete self.