The Whiskey Monologues

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.

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   The Whiskey Monologues:

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