This is going to be a pretty short update as I'm marathoning Mad Men in my hellishly hot apartment. Mad Men in itself has caused me a couple of nic-fits today because there is a lit cigarette in every fucking scene. If any of my older readers grew up in the 60s (and haven't abandoned this blog due to the mature language), could you comment on the accuracy of Mad Men's portrayal of smoking?
I got drunk last night. In my drunken stupor, I slipped and did something I swore I'd never do again...
...I drank Jack Daniels at a bar. Let me clarify that I love whiskey, scotch, and bourbon. I would drink those three for breakfast, if I could do so without signing a deal with the producers of Intervention. However, there are two times when it is acceptable to drink Jack Daniels: when you're dying for a real drink and the bar you're in is out of Crown Royal and when you lose a bet with your sister-cousin and you're running late for your Klan meeting. One of the advantages of drinking at the age of 26 is that you no longer have to suck down bottom rail beer and liquor like you're being hazed by the cast of Jackass. But sometimes, you just end up with a night where the bottom shelf follows you around. And, with the exception of Milwaukee’s Best and anything Aristocrat, there is nothing more bottom shelf than Jack. Jack Daniels is to whiskey what the Washington Redskins are to football; the name implies pride and success, but at closer look all you have is an unwatchable/undrinkable product that's more than a bit racist. Even its high-end products are absolute shit. I can count the number of times I’ve ordered a Jack product since college, and that number is two. Once when I drank a wedding reception out of Crown Royal during the rehearsal dinner (not my finest hour, but that was a fun wedding) and last night, when I lost a bet with my cousin-wife and had to push the double-wide out of a flood plain. If any of my friends are reading this, I think they may be shocked because they always order it for me when they buy me a drink. Guys, I’m sorry to break it to you like this, but I die a little inside whenever you hand me a Jack and coke. As I was typing this, the South officially revoked my right to claim Bristol, Virginia as my hometown.
I thought my drunken antics were going to be enough fuel to feed this blog for the next two weeks, but ultimately (and surprisingly) it was an uneventful (and unfitful) night - save for a hilariously awkward conversation with a girl waiting in the bathroom line. "Imagine Disney Land and a beautiful beach rolled into one. This bathroom is the exact opposite of that," Unfortunately, that is a direct quote. All-in-all I made it through my first drunk night with no or real cravings whatsoever. I had even prepared, I cut up a few straws and put them in a Malboro box. Every time I felt a craving or a nic-fit coming on, I'd just politely step outside, make sure I was out of smelling distance from any other smokers, and attempt to inhale my neon pink bendy straw. All my straws are neon thanks to my great decision making during the Target Debacle. Whenever I have a nic-fit, I look like Bozo's cocaine dealer.
On a side-note, I would like to say that I've noticed a severe lack of a filter lately. Meaning, I'm saying and doing exactly what's on my mind; sometimes it's a good thing and other times I'm just that crazy asshole in the middle of the cross-walk screaming at the car that took off before he crossed. I've never had this issue during my other quits, so I thought I'd put it out there. Again, because I am currently and apparently unfiltered.
