(Pre-script: All hail the Hedonist! Someone I've been trying to persuade to blog for quite some time! Fresh maal from London! And, dude, we missed you this weekend, truly. Delhi is not the same without you.)
And now, back to our regular programming.
So, you know I love drinking. I love it. Absolutely. It qualifies as a passion for me, right up there with like writing, and reading. Anywhere that offers alcohol is instantly upped one level for me. A passion, though, is not the same thing as an addiction. A passion is when you enjoy something, when it's something that you can talk about, when it's something that makes you happy, she said defensively. An addiction on the other hand is when you can't stop yourself from doing something, and when it doesn't make you happy anymore, but you keep doing it anyway. With a passion, you like meeting people who share that love with you. Anyway. Enough defending myself. I'm *ahem* going to divide this post into three parts, so you're forewarned right away, and tackle the issues of alcohol consumption.
Right. Since everyone (except you! You rule! I love you!) has promptly fallen down face first on their keyboards and gone to sleep, I think I can begin unihibitedly. (Oh wait, if you're like a child or something, below 18, I'm going to need to see some ID so your parents don't sue me)
*What you could buy me in a bar, to make me go to bed with you (well, okay, not quite. But I will smile prettily for some time, and listen animatedly and interestedly to what you have to say. Which is quite a big deal, no?)*
> Rum and coke: But, BUT. Make sure the rum is Old Monk, only. Not Bacardi. I don't drink Bacardi. I hate the chemical aftertaste that it leaves in your mouth, and the cringe that it induces going down your throat. I will be your best friend forever if you know this, and you know not to ask me what I'm drinking, when you're placing the order.
> Margaritas: How can you NOT love a margarita? It's the only cocktail that tastes of nothing but the sweet, sweet taste of tequila, that's so palate-burningly distinctive. The salt around the rim has to be perfect though, for a really good margarita. I like the ones where they layer on the salt, rather than put a delicate ladylike sprinkling, and then (if I'm at TGIF and drinking their perfect Ultimate Margaritas, which feel like you've died and gone to Dipsomaniac Heaven) I like to lick the salt rim and then quickly chug through the straw, with the liquid dissolving the salt in my mouth. Small showed me the sexy way to do that too, so it works on many levels. I think tequila shots should count as a subhead in this category though SOME people say they haven't done tequila shots since COLLEGE, but I think they're just missing out on some good fun. (And they haven't been out of college for that long anyway, so hah bloody hah.) The whole ritual of the thing, sprinkling the salt on that little flap of skin between your thumb and forefinger, holding the lemon, saying cheers loudly (because tequila always adds an air of good cheer and celebration to a gathering, even if it's only Tuesday) and knocking the drink back, trying not to let your eyes tear as you suck desperately at the lemon, wait a beat, and another, and then the warmness fills your stomach and radiates out through your veins and EVERYONE is so BEAUTIFUL and really, you're so HAPPY and yeah, tequila rules.
> Vodka-coke: In ze winter I svitch to ze wodka, because it is varming and more high inducing than rum and if I "bottoms-up" my drink, I feel sensation arriving again to my numbed fingertips, and my nails (which usually stay blue from December through February) suddenly get all pink and glowing and oh, the tip of my nose, another cold spot (I have fun with boys I'm dating, or at least, when I USED to date boys, many decades ago, burying my nose into their cheek or shoulder or warm stomach when they least expect it, which means I a) warm up my poor frozen probosis and b) I get to hear them squeal like little girls. Both are fun.) Vith wodka, I grow varm again, and often I strip down to my lowest layer (not the bra, but either the tank top or sweater before that. I am a respectable girl, after all) and oh, vhy von't vinter come already? It's about time.
*Experiences that alcohol has heightened this past weekend (not ALL past weekends. That would be sort of hard to document, seeing their sheer volume and the fact that I forget most of what happens to me)*
Oh, he was so hot. Really hot. BUILT and PRETTY with this mouth, oh his mouth, it curved so sweetly and sexily, and his body, mmmmmmmmmm, what a body and because it was so loud he leaned in to talk to me, and I could smell his hottieness and feel his beautiful hair (well, it was ironed, but still) brush against my ear, and examine his chest, which stretched out his t-shirt and then sat loosely around his superflat stomach and when I reached out to make a point and touched his (beautiful) arm, with its sinews and curves and MUSCLES OH MY GOD THE MUSCLES, I wanted to die.
And then I nearly did, from sucking in my stomach for so long.
(oh, and ps: not happening. male model, waaaaaaay out of my league, but I did enjoy basking in that hotness for a while. Ooh, and he kissed my cheek to say goodbye and I could feel the shape of his mouth and please can I take him home? He can live in my cupboard, and service me every morning. And evening, if I'm not too tired. Actually, for him, I'd NEVER be tired.)
*Here's where I insert a tiny note on my pickled liver and my heightened capacity and how it's really sad that I can drink so much and not get drunk, but you get the general idea, no?*