headache sick puke wild turkey alcoholic dad kentucky jim beam shot glasses friends buzz bourbon rum coke on the rocks bad taste don’t like it don’t want it don’t need it waste of time rather have beer or tequila
Fire going down. Burning the whole maybe straight to the heart. To soothe memories or to forget them. To numb all that was once had. Why live when you can forget?
It’s not that I wanted to drink it, but I just wanted to forget last night. It was a nightmare of a week, one embarresing complication after another one. I was ready to resign all my worries to the bottle of moon whiskey. The alcohol washed down my throat
The bottle was green and skinny at the neck. I put it on top of the bookcase next to my globe. My grandfather gave me that globe when I was 10. He told me wanted me to become a world famous cartographer someday .
Longing to reach the shore and its promises of alcoholic abandon. A lone sailor sits out at night, watching the lights bob slowly amidst the undulations of the night sea. A low moon hangs in the sky like a suspended snowball. The wind picks up and blows through the air, vibrating his shirt. Singapore, on the horizon.
With Coke. Jack Daniels. I always think of angry men when I think of whiskey. I’m not so sure why. Not a personal fan, but it does the trick. What other whiskey brands? Jameson, uhh… yeah. I don’t know my Whiskeys, clearly.
The scotland coast with Nick happened to be the best moment for us. We would climb the dunes with a lowball glass and talk about almost nothing at all. He is my best friend.
i sipped the whiskey silently. no words were exchanged between us, but no words were necessary at that point in the evening. we sat, enjoyed each others company, and let the tender caress of the liquor pour down our gullets. at the end of the evening i helped her into her coat and bid her farewell.
I don’t love you because of your youth…I love you because you’re still young enough to be fearless…and because it’s going to break my heart when this world of hurt takes that away from you…
I picture a saloon with a man who wears a long reddish brown mustache. He’s in an old saloon with one elbow leaning on the bar, the bartender pulling the handle for a draft beer and a glass with a couple ice cubes in it in front of the man. He’s slightly sweaty and smelly, his language is gruff, when he speaks, which he doesn’t much.
Whiskey is something i equate with whiskers because they sound the same. Whiskers sounds like a pet cat or a scraggly mustache, both of which look interesting perched on the faces of elderly british men with monocles and pipes, though if you choose the cat watch where the pipe is lit. Burning cats tend to claw with sixteen times more strength. Sixteen slashes to the face may leave you quite pained.
The man laughed again causing the girl to recoil a little. What’s the matter? He asked, Am I too old for you? She shook her head unconvincingly and he turned to pick up the bottle on the porch next to him. That’s ok, he says. I’m too old for me too.
That night the moon shone so bright as brandy and I were eating a ham and swiss on rye at Bourbon St. Cafe, when all of a sudden from out of nowhere white lightning filled the sky shattering the antique whiskey bottle into little pieces.
A pleather couch and a rocks glass an eighth of the way filled. A nice movie playing across the room and a few casual sips every now and then. Undertones of smoke and sea salt caressing my nose and tongue. Dancing flickers of light as the camera changes view point. And I’m somewhere between it all, finding my place inside of myself, enjoying every moment of it.
Wisers. Parties. Regrets. Fire and ice. Burning and intoxicating, my drug of choice. Hot hot heat, so cool, quenching a parched throat. Ahhh, the things we do when we’re drunk. Time to grom up and mature. Falling down the neck of the bottle for the last time.
i was going with you alongside the road, we passed some lonely gas station in the middle of cornfields. the half-full whiskey bottle was in your hand, in a paperbag of course. we felt happy. this was a moment to be happy and we both new it. sometimes you just now these things
reall men drink their whiskey straight that’s what my daddy always said. my momma too no w that i htink of it, real whiskey in real grown-up glassess sturdy affairs which may have dropped but seemed made of something more solid than wine glassess, i saw lots of wineglassess shattered but those whiskey glasses never broke, once my momma threw hers against the wall and it just fell bottom down.
Whiskey in the jar. Whose idea was it to cover that? Just because Metallica did it…but he put his head down, strummed along gamely. He would never tell the others that he could play the uillean pipes and bagpipes, the fiddle and penny whistle, that he could play this song the way it was meant to be played.
But the classical musicians didn’t last long on this circuit, and he loved his guitar too much to give it up.
So play he did, and he hoped his professors weren’t anywhere in earshot.
Balloons. So many balloons. The girl next to me catches them and pops them between her hands. She has whiskey. I take a few pulls. I want to kiss her. But not as badly as I want to kiss the girl on stage, the one in the dress with the shaved head.
painted your walls with whiskey, glass on the ground, you had to wear your shoes indoors from then on. and you painted yourself, how happy you were, to have filled the tub with it, sat in it with all your clothes on and hummed a favorite a song. you were always such a mess but there was no other way you could’ve lived, i know.
oh, yeah
just fine drinking by myself
i’m just fine right now and i’ll stay just fine
you’re worried over nothing
quit it
best i’ve felt all week, actually
yeah
god i’m happy
drink it fire water that you thinking, not so much lately spending time lying on the floor of someones apartment you don’t even know. I’ve seen her talk lower, i’ve seen him act tougher, i’ve been saved by snow storms. Don’t bluff. write your newly torn edges together,
Gunsmoke and whiskey. It’s a song I listened to with my sister. We were too young to understand what it means. It was a folk artist in my dad’s music collection. Or maybe we did know what it meant. It was about American history, the woods somewhere in Tennessee, a world we’d never been to.
I love drinking whiskey. Straight outta the bottle. Puts hair on my chest. Even though I’m a woman. Can’t get enough of the stuff. It goes so well with my Pal Mall’s.
Whiskey is a common drink used by hillbillies, but it also brings to mind things about alcoholism and drinking. One of my dad’s friends was an alcoholic, and he always drank whiskey. ‘whiskey on the breath’ is used to describe alcoholics, and it is rather strong and identifiable. It can also be interchangeable, or at least confused with brandy. Often used to fill St. Bernards’ so called ‘collar barrel’, it was used to revive people who were lost in the mountains.
“Are we having fun yet?”, I asked as he downed another glass of whiskey. The fragrance wafted up and slightly stung my nose while I looked at him in disdain. It bothered me that he seemed to feel the need to be inebriated every time we got together.
It wasn’t a mistake, no matter how many times he tried to label it that. A hard day, a bit of whiskey. Next thing we knew we were waking up in the hallway of the main building, Harley standing above us with hands on hips. Greance blamed the entire incident on me, but I knew he had had fun.
warm comfort in a bottle. warm burning comfort. warm burning uncomfortable comfort. is it comfort? why is burning so comfortable? no comfort. no burning. no thanks.
an old man would probably drink whiskey, or something like it. I don’t really have much to say about whiskey, other than the fact that it is clear. I don’t think i’ve ever tasted it. I can only imagine what it might taste like.
When i lay in bed thinking what to do next.. i pull out that bottle of whiskey so my thoughts will drift. I toss and I turn and I drink and I slur that bottle of whiskey never seems to leave my hand. I wake up and there it is haunting me.
Tinkerbell downed her shot of whiskey, nearly crushing herself under the weight of the glass, and staggered off the edge of the bar. Peter Pan had been off in the corner, drinking with Wendy and some of the Lost Boys. Tink knocked her head on a barstool on her way down. When she regained consciousness, she staggered up under the corner table to notice Peter’s hand wandering up Wendy’s thigh.
“AIEEAAAAGGHH!” Wendy suddenly screamed in pain and dropped her Long Island iced tea in Peter’s lap. Peter said, “what’s wrong, Wendy?” When she pulled her foot up, it only had four toes. As she lost consciousness, as her vision faded, she watched the eccentric flight path of a green-dressed fairy and a bloody magic wand, struggling under the weight of a human pinky toe.
Whiskey is the smell on my Grandfathers breath. It is comforting and the scent doesn’t bother me. It sings me to sleep. It’s that old man paying guitar and swaying me back and forth. Its rough and calming. As I get older it fades into a more regular scent. Sometimes Whiskey is the sneaky swigs, the late nights.They burn enough to warm your insides. Now its on my breath, but it will always take me back to the rocking chair, on my Grandfathers lap.
He put down the glass of whiskey and turned back to his work. When he reached for the glass again, it wasn’t there. Looking up, he saw it on the other side of the table. He frowned. He could have sworn he had put it down right there. In fact, when he looked, there was a ring of condensation on the desk where he had left it.
headache sick puke wild turkey alcoholic dad kentucky jim beam shot glasses friends buzz bourbon rum coke on the rocks bad taste don’t like it don’t want it don’t need it waste of time rather have beer or tequila
Fire going down. Burning the whole maybe straight to the heart. To soothe memories or to forget them. To numb all that was once had. Why live when you can forget?
It’s not that I wanted to drink it, but I just wanted to forget last night. It was a nightmare of a week, one embarresing complication after another one. I was ready to resign all my worries to the bottle of moon whiskey. The alcohol washed down my throat
The bottle was green and skinny at the neck. I put it on top of the bookcase next to my globe. My grandfather gave me that globe when I was 10. He told me wanted me to become a world famous cartographer someday .
Longing to reach the shore and its promises of alcoholic abandon. A lone sailor sits out at night, watching the lights bob slowly amidst the undulations of the night sea. A low moon hangs in the sky like a suspended snowball. The wind picks up and blows through the air, vibrating his shirt. Singapore, on the horizon.
the name of one of my friends’ cat.
I don’t drink. And I don’t want to :)
Because wine deprives us from the best of our qualities.. Thinking.
With Coke. Jack Daniels. I always think of angry men when I think of whiskey. I’m not so sure why. Not a personal fan, but it does the trick. What other whiskey brands? Jameson, uhh… yeah. I don’t know my Whiskeys, clearly.
The scotland coast with Nick happened to be the best moment for us. We would climb the dunes with a lowball glass and talk about almost nothing at all. He is my best friend.
i sipped the whiskey silently. no words were exchanged between us, but no words were necessary at that point in the evening. we sat, enjoyed each others company, and let the tender caress of the liquor pour down our gullets. at the end of the evening i helped her into her coat and bid her farewell.
I don’t love you because of your youth…I love you because you’re still young enough to be fearless…and because it’s going to break my heart when this world of hurt takes that away from you…
I picture a saloon with a man who wears a long reddish brown mustache. He’s in an old saloon with one elbow leaning on the bar, the bartender pulling the handle for a draft beer and a glass with a couple ice cubes in it in front of the man. He’s slightly sweaty and smelly, his language is gruff, when he speaks, which he doesn’t much.
Whiskey is something i equate with whiskers because they sound the same. Whiskers sounds like a pet cat or a scraggly mustache, both of which look interesting perched on the faces of elderly british men with monocles and pipes, though if you choose the cat watch where the pipe is lit. Burning cats tend to claw with sixteen times more strength. Sixteen slashes to the face may leave you quite pained.
The man laughed again causing the girl to recoil a little. What’s the matter? He asked, Am I too old for you? She shook her head unconvincingly and he turned to pick up the bottle on the porch next to him. That’s ok, he says. I’m too old for me too.
That night the moon shone so bright as brandy and I were eating a ham and swiss on rye at Bourbon St. Cafe, when all of a sudden from out of nowhere white lightning filled the sky shattering the antique whiskey bottle into little pieces.
“Now what?” asked Jack.
“Yeah..”
A pleather couch and a rocks glass an eighth of the way filled. A nice movie playing across the room and a few casual sips every now and then. Undertones of smoke and sea salt caressing my nose and tongue. Dancing flickers of light as the camera changes view point. And I’m somewhere between it all, finding my place inside of myself, enjoying every moment of it.
Wisers. Parties. Regrets. Fire and ice. Burning and intoxicating, my drug of choice. Hot hot heat, so cool, quenching a parched throat. Ahhh, the things we do when we’re drunk. Time to grom up and mature. Falling down the neck of the bottle for the last time.
alcohol sick strong two syllubs beverage drunks whores dad AA the big book friends party life 21 donnie money waste life less hopeless puke
i was going with you alongside the road, we passed some lonely gas station in the middle of cornfields. the half-full whiskey bottle was in your hand, in a paperbag of course. we felt happy. this was a moment to be happy and we both new it. sometimes you just now these things
reall men drink their whiskey straight that’s what my daddy always said. my momma too no w that i htink of it, real whiskey in real grown-up glassess sturdy affairs which may have dropped but seemed made of something more solid than wine glassess, i saw lots of wineglassess shattered but those whiskey glasses never broke, once my momma threw hers against the wall and it just fell bottom down.
Whiskey in the jar. Whose idea was it to cover that? Just because Metallica did it…but he put his head down, strummed along gamely. He would never tell the others that he could play the uillean pipes and bagpipes, the fiddle and penny whistle, that he could play this song the way it was meant to be played.
But the classical musicians didn’t last long on this circuit, and he loved his guitar too much to give it up.
So play he did, and he hoped his professors weren’t anywhere in earshot.
ex husband, smells, anger, fear, ugly, go away, i hate it, ruins lives
Balloons. So many balloons. The girl next to me catches them and pops them between her hands. She has whiskey. I take a few pulls. I want to kiss her. But not as badly as I want to kiss the girl on stage, the one in the dress with the shaved head.
painted your walls with whiskey, glass on the ground, you had to wear your shoes indoors from then on. and you painted yourself, how happy you were, to have filled the tub with it, sat in it with all your clothes on and hummed a favorite a song. you were always such a mess but there was no other way you could’ve lived, i know.
it’s okay.
oh, yeah
just fine drinking by myself
i’m just fine right now and i’ll stay just fine
you’re worried over nothing
quit it
best i’ve felt all week, actually
yeah
god i’m happy
drink it fire water that you thinking, not so much lately spending time lying on the floor of someones apartment you don’t even know. I’ve seen her talk lower, i’ve seen him act tougher, i’ve been saved by snow storms. Don’t bluff. write your newly torn edges together,
Gunsmoke and whiskey. It’s a song I listened to with my sister. We were too young to understand what it means. It was a folk artist in my dad’s music collection. Or maybe we did know what it meant. It was about American history, the woods somewhere in Tennessee, a world we’d never been to.
I love drinking whiskey. Straight outta the bottle. Puts hair on my chest. Even though I’m a woman. Can’t get enough of the stuff. It goes so well with my Pal Mall’s.
Whiskey is a common drink used by hillbillies, but it also brings to mind things about alcoholism and drinking. One of my dad’s friends was an alcoholic, and he always drank whiskey. ‘whiskey on the breath’ is used to describe alcoholics, and it is rather strong and identifiable. It can also be interchangeable, or at least confused with brandy. Often used to fill St. Bernards’ so called ‘collar barrel’, it was used to revive people who were lost in the mountains.
“Well?”, hope filled up in his voice like whiskey is home to a drunken man’s throat.
“Are we having fun yet?”, I asked as he downed another glass of whiskey. The fragrance wafted up and slightly stung my nose while I looked at him in disdain. It bothered me that he seemed to feel the need to be inebriated every time we got together.
It wasn’t a mistake, no matter how many times he tried to label it that. A hard day, a bit of whiskey. Next thing we knew we were waking up in the hallway of the main building, Harley standing above us with hands on hips. Greance blamed the entire incident on me, but I knew he had had fun.
warm comfort in a bottle. warm burning comfort. warm burning uncomfortable comfort. is it comfort? why is burning so comfortable? no comfort. no burning. no thanks.
an old man would probably drink whiskey, or something like it. I don’t really have much to say about whiskey, other than the fact that it is clear. I don’t think i’ve ever tasted it. I can only imagine what it might taste like.
When i lay in bed thinking what to do next.. i pull out that bottle of whiskey so my thoughts will drift. I toss and I turn and I drink and I slur that bottle of whiskey never seems to leave my hand. I wake up and there it is haunting me.
Tinkerbell downed her shot of whiskey, nearly crushing herself under the weight of the glass, and staggered off the edge of the bar. Peter Pan had been off in the corner, drinking with Wendy and some of the Lost Boys. Tink knocked her head on a barstool on her way down. When she regained consciousness, she staggered up under the corner table to notice Peter’s hand wandering up Wendy’s thigh.
“AIEEAAAAGGHH!” Wendy suddenly screamed in pain and dropped her Long Island iced tea in Peter’s lap. Peter said, “what’s wrong, Wendy?” When she pulled her foot up, it only had four toes. As she lost consciousness, as her vision faded, she watched the eccentric flight path of a green-dressed fairy and a bloody magic wand, struggling under the weight of a human pinky toe.
Whiskey is the smell on my Grandfathers breath. It is comforting and the scent doesn’t bother me. It sings me to sleep. It’s that old man paying guitar and swaying me back and forth. Its rough and calming. As I get older it fades into a more regular scent. Sometimes Whiskey is the sneaky swigs, the late nights.They burn enough to warm your insides. Now its on my breath, but it will always take me back to the rocking chair, on my Grandfathers lap.
Rows of grain,
sway.
Lay flat,
cut short
from sickles
disarrayed.
‘Let me get you a drink. I think you’ll need one.’
‘Well, what do you have and I might consider it.’
‘There’s whiskey, that’s all. That’s my drink – especially in times like this.’
‘Fine.’ She sat uncomfortably on the edge of her seat.
business
He put down the glass of whiskey and turned back to his work. When he reached for the glass again, it wasn’t there. Looking up, he saw it on the other side of the table. He frowned. He could have sworn he had put it down right there. In fact, when he looked, there was a ring of condensation on the desk where he had left it.