The Whiskey Monologues

the pebbles cut diamonds into my knees through cotton stockings as I part flowers and bushes in search of the bottle of winter’s woes. my memory of losing it is hazy, compromised, and wouldn’t hold up in a court of law, but you remember, don’t you? disposing the evidence of our drunken debauchery on the sidewalk before you carried me down the long driveway and into your bed. five months later, I crawl through leaves and insects, hoping that the residents and their gardeners haven’t already beaten me to it, the last fossil from that eveningmorning (the hours all blend together, don’t they?). you’re not home, and I’m with people are desperate enough for this liquid courage to wade through nearly 150 days of foliage to accomplish this. but the ground is ugly, the pavement is cold, and our tequila is gone.

midnight doesn’t have the same poetry without you.

Submitted by W.

Vodka makes me slippery. Loose. More than disjointed— disconnected. My mind from my body and my limbs from each other, muscles and bones and ligaments become so much primordial ooze formed into a vaguely female shape. I slip into a lower level of consciousness, sub-aware rather than hyper-aware of the buzzing, spinning world around me. Words slip from my mouth, syllables and logic muddled into a sloppy, slurred mess. I slip into the groove, into the beat, swinging and swaying to music that touches the beast inside. And I never dance when sober. I slip into your arms, fingers brazenly sliding through your hair and and across your cheekbones and chest. I hang like a rag doll in your arms— but only for a moment, because there are people watching us, and because the music is still playing.

I opened my eyes and gently removed two hands from my waist. I sat up in bed as quietly as I could, but his eyes opened almost immediately. We shared eye contact for a moment, but I broke it as I reached for the messy floor, where my pants and t-shirt lay. I felt his eyes watching me as i put my clothes back on, but no words were exchanged.

I placed my palm on my head in hopes of easing the massive pounding as the result of five too many drinks. I found my purse in the corner and checked my wallet, which lacked the twenty bucks I had the night before. Of course. I grabbed my shades off the nightstand and tossed them on my face as I stubbornly limped out of the bedroom.

Not much to my surprise, I caught my best friend sleeping on the couch in a very similar predicament to mine earlier that morning. I picked up the nearest blanket and lay it flat over my best friend and the stranger wrapped around her. I don’t want to wake her up, knowing that she’s had a long night like myself.

In an attempt to kill time, I head towards the kitchen and open the fridge. Nothing looks appetizing, no surprise there. It wasn’t till then that I realized that I was the only person awake in the house. My mind went crazy for a moment as all the possibilities of my options ran through my head. First things first though, I’m gonna need another drink.

Submitted by anonymous (:

A mutual friend told me he got married after I left him.

“Well, good for him,” I said, to no one, stumbling down the sidewalk in a pea coat. “Good. For. Him.” I’m replying to the memory of the conversation. During the actual conversation, though, I laughed, told our mutual friend I had to go back home for an early flight, stopped by a liquor store, and drank my weight in alcohol.

It was 4 in the morning when I decided to drive by his apartment, a two-hour drive from the city. For what, I don’t know. I parked across the street from his window. There was a light on, and my breathe hung on any silhouette that may pass by. But none did. I imagined walking up to his door, soaked from the rain outside and begging him to take me back. He’ll stand at the doorway in his boxer briefs and five o’clock shadow, alone. His wife won’t be there because by then he’ll have found he made a mistake in marrying her. He’ll pull me in passionately, kiss me the way he used to, and we’d make love in the hallway just behind the door. But that’s not realistic because it’s not even raining, and I’m a coward, and I stumble my drunk ass to a nearby park and pass out.

Submitted by M.

PROCRASTINATION

I shouldn’t put it off any longer. Not when I’ve known for so long.

That it’s not going to work. That although we look right together there is something totally missing inside.

I already feel like I’ve betrayed her. When I’ve done nothing but been the perfect boyfriend.

The perfect boyfriend that knows it is going to end.

That’s why I can be perfect.

I know I’m on a time limit.

Maybe I’ll tell her over dinner on Friday.

Will that make it worse or better? A full stomach and a glass of wine to round the sharp edges?

Or maybe before dinner? Then if there’s a scene we can both save face and walk away majestically from our favourite bar.

After dinner we usually go back to her flat and make love.

Neutral ground would be better.

Maybe first thing in the morning. Maybe that will give her the day to adjust. Work off a bit of steam at the gym and forget me by lunch time.

Or maybe now.

Maybe I should just call her and arrange to meet.

And get the job done.

No more delay.

Or maybe I’ll just put a load of washing on, pour a brandy and think about it.

One more day of betrayal won’t make any difference.

Submitted by The Universe Speaks.

Jameson just doesn’t burn like tequila. It doesn’t give you that just got punched in the stomach feeling vodka achieves. A welcome comfort to the cheap beer and inferior hard liquor (which is all of them in her opinion) she’s been putting up with. Beer is for drunk fucking, keeps you just sober enough to remain coherent to do the deed, and drunk enough to forget you shouldn’t be doing it at all. Jameson, however, is for drinking, savoring rather, let it seep into your veins and blur the lines the pot couldn’t cure. Let it keep you company as you roam these lonely Texas streets and explore the meaning of liquid courage.

It’s the Cajun in her bones that keeps her going now, a raw thirst for life that can only be quenched by the Irish whiskey in her blood. The future is a luxury for those who can afford it and she’s low on cash so she stumbles around obliviously in the present. The clock reads 6am as she pours her first shot of the day. At least it’s noon in Ireland. She swishes her whiskey and prepares for that familiar sting in her nose and the warming numbness to take her in its loving arms.

Submitted by Living the high li(f)e.

AN EXTRACT FROM “THE INVISIBLE THREAD”

The last time Fionn, Matthew and I were together before the plan reached its climax, we sat drinking in my kitchen until the wee small hours. There was a bottle of eighteen-year Talisker whisky being saved for a special occasion like this. Matthew didn’t know this was a special occasion, but it was a watershed in our relationship.

A drink like that is something to be enjoyed amongst the most intimate of groups you see, ones who know already the thoughts swirling in each other’s heads. But I alone knew what they were thinking, asleep and awake their thoughts trawled through me. Fionn thought he knew my mind, but I knew he was slipping. Matthew knew nothing. In my trance I was the one in control. I was in control of it all. It was me who I poured the drink. Just with ice, mind; you have two options: ice or neat. Anything fancier than that and you don’t deserve a whisky.

I was silent for most of the night, listening to the babble that Fionn had perfected which kept Matthew onside. Fionn was the honeypot, the football trivia, the vapid jokes. He was overly familiar and slipping. Matthew was the sycophant, the easy-to-amuse petty scheme-boy. I cut in, brash.

“Is there anything you regret?”

They both lost their place in whatever conversation was simmering along. Fionn stared deliberately at me while I avoided his eyes; Matthew was still whisky-hearted, mouth halfway through some inane story. For the first time that night the only sound was the dull dunts of ice on ice in our glasses. It’s good to cut into small talk, silence like this is better than fucking small talk. And you know what he says?

“Well, I’ll regret this in the mornin’, eh?”

Matthew was being fucking funny again. His whiny fucking screech was hilarious as per. I hope you’re bright enough to stay away from the whine of petty men. And stay away from people who confuse small talk for conversation.

Aye, well, I don’t move a muscle, just keep my eyes on Matthew across the wee table, and I see Fionn’s moved his suspicion from me to the cunt too. Matthew fades a bit, maybe is thinking that when I’m drunk I get a bit faux-serious so he clunks towards a diplomatic response. Crinkles his eyes a wee smidge like a smarmy bastard and bites his bottom lip. I come within a hair’s breadth of flipping the table when he finally speaks.

“I don’t believe… in regret” this wee worm says. “What we should dae is just dae what we want. And you shoulnae be dain it if yer the sort of cunt that regrets stuff. Regret’s fir cunts who dinnae enjoy their life, and Catholics.”

And I say to him “Is it not guilt that’s for Catholics?” and he goes “Well a dinnae have guilt either, dae a? A’ve made aw ma decisions masel. A’ve done them aw cause I wanted tae. Nothin to be guilty about if it wis you that chose tae dae them, eh?”

Wee guy will never know he nailed the nails into his own coffin. I drained my glass and left them the bottle.

Submitted by Cal McDonald.

The alcohol crept its way down our throats slowly, calmly. No, the alcohol jumped down our throats eagerly, one drink after another. I burned my insides with straight vodka and chased it with a forty. The lyrics to the song we were listening to didn’t make any sense. They weren’t words, just letters jumbled together to make sounds. I think that was due to my level of intoxication, but I can’t be sure. After a few slurred conversations, several hits on a cheaply loaded joint, and another dose or two of Four Loko, our minds were so blissfully clouded. We were fucked up in such a good way.
  

I was too young to be there, stumbling through the apartment, completely obliterated. We were all technically “too young.” But, that’s the thing. We were too young to notice, too young to care, and all that we knew was which drink settled best in the morning.

Submitted by Deus Ex Machina.

Don’t call it a comeback.