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.

END OF THE WEEK

He pulled into the driveway, grabbed his jacket and briefcase off the back seat and unlocked the house.

Slinging his stuff on a kitchen stool, he took off his tie and loosened the top buttons of his shirt. Grabbing a beer from the fridge he moved out to the balcony.

He sat. Stuck his feet on the patio table. And took a long pull of his beer.

Friday beers taste the best.

A “happy” submission from The Universe Speaks.

A 2009 bottle of Jim Beam Kentucky Bourbon met its match this morning just before noon at the hands of a 20-something malcontent born under the sign of Aries.

The death was swift but nonviolent.

The Jim began its life in Clermont, KY, and was adopted in Columbia, MO, in 2009, by the same woman who finished it off.  It had been in decline for more than a year, taking a turn for the worse in early fall 2009, a casualty of overzealous birthday celebrating.

The Jim Beam Bourbon enjoyed the weekend, rooftop lounges and playing Scrabble.  It had fond memories of Dr. Pepper and plastic Shakespeare’s Pizza cups.

It is survived by two-glasses worth of a 2008 Robert Mondavi Cabernet Sauvignon, one bottle of Fat Tire, three ounces of Kahlua and about that much of a handle of Bacardi rum, but their futures aren’t looking so bright either.

At its request there will be no formal burial, just a routine stashing under the bed.

Submitted by The Old Irish Rose.

 “I drink,” she said, “because it helps me forget about you. And when I’m not drinking, I’m sitting here wallowing in my own self-pity. When I drink, I can at least forget that there’s even anything to pity. Getting drunk alone is like my own personal ‘fuck you’ to all those happy couples out there at the bars who get drunk together, and then fuck until they don’t know what happened to them. It’s just an endless cycle. Until someone can show me how to be happy, I’ll use my vodka to make my own happiness.” 

“I drink,” he said, “because it helps me remember you. The way you’d touch me at night right before I fell asleep. The way you would kiss the corners of my eyes when I would wake up.  All those times when we were the happy couple that went to the bar to get drunk and fuck all night. It helps me remember how you sounded right before you orgasmed, and that little face you made right after I would kiss you. When I drink, you seem real. You’re no longer a figment of my imagination that could have been made up. I knew you existed, once; and until someone can help me see that when I’m sober, then I’ll just keep drinking you to life.

Submitted by Hannah C.

THE RING A ZOMBIE LEFT ME

Shadows and soft lighting descend upon the local watering hole;
you approach me with a confidence that does not match your self-esteem.
I’m intrigued enough to buy you a cocktail, hoping to engage in meaningful conversation,
though soon find you’re not interested in anything other than celebrity gossip.

As you rejoin your group of friends,
I look at the condensation left behind from your $12 Malibu pineapple
on the yellow napkin used as a coaster and realize
how pleased I am it will be the only souvenir of our brief encounter.

INTERLUDE WITH A VAMPIRE

Four thirty-two in the morning,
a little late for a cougar to be stalking its prey?
Your lips stained the blood red of your pinot noir,
as the rim of your bordeaux glass glows cherry from your lipstick.

Your dialogue sports sophistication and desperation,
though a gadabout my age isn’t out this late for debate.
So we head to your mercedes and the way you bite my neck,
makes me not care you’re thinking about Robert Pattinson.

X-RAY

I knew the relationship was coming to a close when your drinks started to change. One night, after almost a year of us mutually ordering Whiskey Sours (yours with the well and mine with Maker’s), you refused to let me buy your drink. I don’t know if I was more shocked or hurt by this but I nodded, went to sit down and awkwardly shoved my money back in pocket frantically looking around to make sure no one saw you shut me down, the bar was empty, our bars were mostly empty because you don’t do too well with crowds. Your voice slid down the bar for what seemed like forever til it finally punched me in the throat. “Um… can I get a Vodka tonic,” you didn’t even sound sure of what you wanted, how are you going to order a drink you don’t even want? better yet how are you going to even have a girlfriend you don’t even want? I cant believe you ordered a Vodka fucking tonic, you hadnt drank Vodka since we were in highschool and now here on this night when we were supposed to be fighting over cherry stems and lamenting about how our teeth were turning clear from all the whiskey and triple sec you’re ordering Vodka… that’s fine I guess. Now, I dont really care if you drink Vodka but in that moment it became obvious you were bored with us. Something was going to change and I wish I could  say that this was a misunderstanding or that I was being paranoid but it wasn’t, drunk or not I knew what was up things were changing and although we’d continue to go out, each night got more tense than the last.

Sometimes I’d cry, I’d cry these big horrible salty tears and pull you close to me. Just like a Sorority girl during pledge week I’d drool all over your chest, mumble incoherently then apologize but you were okay with it or at least pretended to be, you were always nice like that. I‘d take these stolen moments as a time to reacquaint myself with your faint sandalwood traces and cheap perfume smell because at this point you wouldn’t even sit close enough for me to create any new synesthetic memories. I guess this continued for about a month and your drinks got more obtuse you’d order things like Hot Toddy’s, Cosmos, or Red Wine nothing anyone out for a good time would drink. It became apparent you were grasping for anything new to get away from what we were. Being stubborn I held on to what I knew I kept drinking Whiskey Sours, pathetically clinging to the dredgs of our relationship like that last sip of your drink when your cards are maxed out and all you need is one more. I was not changing my drink god damn it I was not letting us go I was protesting silently and I would see the end of this movie. Sometimes you get too drunk and dont catch the end of the movie though so now I am sitting here on the sidewalk watching drunk girls stumble out of the bar hoping one of them will be you coming to tell me its time to go home but none of them are, theyre just asking for cigarettes or for directions to the 24 hour diner that you and I used to split cheesefries at.

San Francisco seems less like a city and more like a conveyor belt for me to roll along from drink to drink. I’m missing you like I shouldn’t be and you’ve become a stranger off in your own world only a Bay Bridge away where me and whiskey don’t exist. I’m no longer slurring promises of what our lives will be like when I move to Portland, I’m not telling you about menial bullshit like the mating patterns of Otters, I’m just here with all the air sucked out of me trying to keep from floating off by standing at the bar hissing like a deflating balloon and pushing my way to the front of the line to get my three Whiskey shots and PBR. 

The nights arent the same without sidewalk trips and your whiskey lips but if you ever decide to come back I’ll be here and I promise your drink will still be cold.

Submitted by Barstool Revelations and then some…

wallow in the waves while the water whisks around your shins and you taste salt on your lips and it’s probably ocean spray but might be tears except that you’re tough, too tough to cry, so you shake your appropriately whispy, windblown hair and keep wallowing in your watery wallow. think back to the shore where Morgan and Jack wait for you, side by side, and shut your eyes real tight and you can almost hear the Captain cat-calling to you, hey cutie in the cutoffs looking all lonely out there, i can join ya, i’ve been out to sea once or twice myself, and you shake your head because hell, that’s crazy, a goddamn bottle of rum can’t talk to you, no matter how good it tastes or much time you spend talking to it while it’s tasting good, but then you start walking back through the water, seven steps at a time, and when you push for an eighth in your last set and scrap your sole on a seashell jack’s voice scolds, you know it’s lucky number seven, kid.

Submitted by Marissa.

“He likes you,” you say. “I can’t do this now. Not with him here.”
I scoff, trace your collarbone with a finger, try to be alluring by looking up through eyelashes, blinking slowly. “He doesn’t like me.” I pull on your shirt, kiss your neck.  “Come on.” You trace my waist, touch our noses together.
But suddenly he walks back down the steps, sits one couch over. My fingers unclench awkwardly, settle on top of the blanket. You squeeze my thigh and I shift.
“You spending the night?” you ask, nonchalant. I look at him. His eyes are on the ground; he’s fidgeting.
“No, I can’t be here with this…” I don’t quite catch what he says. I’ve had too much alcohol; I feel a little sick. My head is cloudy and my stomach angry. I take another sip.
“All right then, be safe.” We don’t move, but watch as he leaves, like vultures waiting for their meat to die. He shuts the door softly behind him, blending in with the night. For a moment I wonder about his ability to drive, but the thought is shortlived because
Your mouth is on mine.

Submitted by Meghan Walsh.

Jon and I refill our beers on the front deck. “So you got one more night out of the deal?”

“Pretty much, then she’s gone forever.” I said.

“Or a year,” he said.

“Might as well be forever. She was a good secondary.”

“What?” he questioned me.

“First you got your primary or the girl you like. Then you got your secondary or your other one that you like but not as much as the primary. You know, she’s the girl on the side. Nobody really knows about her. She is usually from somewhere one would not frequent often.”

We both laugh and drink our beer. Jon steals a bottle. In an alley we switch off pulls. Jon has one that does not go down so well. He turns to a clearing and vomits. I am in the midst of taking another pull and saw what had just transpired. I finish my pull but not without a grimace on my face. I quote Caesar to Jon, barely able to keep down the sickness. “Et tu, Jon? Then fall Bill.” I vomit next to Jon. The bottle in my right hand slips from my grasp. It falls in slow motion until meeting the concrete with a deafening sound.

Submitted by Dark Winter.