The Whiskey Monologues

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.