Yesterday I wrote about the freelancer’s love affair with coffee. Today I am writing about my personal obsession with whiskey. Grab a tumbler and some perfectly squared ice cubes and pull up a stool.
First, let’s cut to the chase. I know shit about whiskey. I don’t know how it’s made. I don’t know where it comes from. I don’t know the difference between whiskey, scotch and bourbon, and honestly, I don’t fucking care. Yeah, you can sit there all smug-like sniffing your Glenlevit 18-Year-Old Single Malt; I’ll be over here with the dirty collar and sweaty brow chugging something that would blind a lesser man.
Don’t get me wrong. I’m not proud of my stupidity. But my brain just doesn’t have enough memory left to download more useless information. So instead I’m completely content getting blitzed in blissful ignorance. Hell, you could feed me fermented slug juice, and I probably wouldn’t know the Goddamn difference.
What is it about whiskey that I like so much? I think it’s the burning. I like my sources of pleasure to hurt me. That’s why I’m a regular at the gym. I enjoy forcing myself to repetitively lift painfully heavy objects for absolutely no rational reason. I suppose you could say whiskey is the libation of masochists.
Now some people say it’s blasphemy to drink your liquor any other way besides straight up or on the rocks. These people lack imagination. Sure, I love a little bit of nothing in my potable, but I’m also a big fan of adding mixers, like Diet Coke, Ginger Ale and more whiskey.
Anyway, it’s been a real long day of writing. I’ve been writing pretty much non-stop since I woke up. And here I am writing still…for my own pleasure! (I told you us whiskey drinkers are masochists.) I need to turn my brain off. I can either zap myself with a cattle prod…or I can go out and grip that welcoming amber glass of whiskey.