To be honest, I don’t think whiskey and I ever really got along as well as I tend claim despite the many moments when I felt a rush of excitement at the Jameson bottle cap click-clicking open or the crackle-crackle of the ice cubes in a glass warming up to their new roommate. The look on a strange, new face as I perform the classic sip-and-swish with a feminine smile of harsh satisfaction combined with a fleeting eye-to-eye flash, is, definitely, reason enough to enjoy the old man’s medicine.
All was grand until whiskey and I had a major falling out. You see it has this way of making me believe that what I am feeling deep down inside is, more or less, rational and that the company I am with will totally understand and agree that there is a problem and they will help me resolve misunderstandings with it. On top of that, it makes me believe that expressing what I am feeling in the most abrupt and, at times, explosive manner is the best idea ever. “After all,” whiskey tells me, “your true friend (a) will understand what actions have lead you to feel this way, (b) knows that feelings aren’t facts, and (c) realizes that at this moment in time, there is no way to sugar coat the fact that it hurts you to have to hear about ‘her’ all-the-time.” Being starved of proper outlets of natural emotion, especially frustration, in my normal awareness, whiskey provided me with an outlet which, I found, works well to weed out those who think solely about themselves under the guise of thinking for themselves, at price, of course.