Oh, whiskey, how fraught with complications is our relationship. Sure, we’ve had good times. Remember when I used to carry you around in my purse in a dainty silver round flask all over Boston before I could legally hang out with you? You’ve been there for me and my nearest and dearest through a lot of good times.
There was the Christmas party in the Leonard St. apartment before I moved in and way before David moved out. When we mixed up pitchers of Manhattans and drank them like they were margaritas. I remember meeting all sorts of new people and just trying to stay in one place long enough not to vomit on the countertop at my then-new love’s house in front of his friends. And then, after drinking at least 2 gallons of water, dancing my heart out in that yellow plaid sequined Oscar de la Renta skirt that made such a great swishing noise on the dancefloor. No one was the wiser to the tumultuous evening you and I were having at the time.
But lately, it just seems like you are only keeping company with the saddest of individuals. I’m worried about you. In our youth, you always brought happy times and good vibes with you. Now, it seems as though every time anyone I know hangs out with you, it’s a fight to hold back tears. And I naively hold onto the hope that each time you will come through and save the day, but you always overstay your welcome by a few drinks, and the night ends with slurred words and the admission of otherwise hidden secrets.
Maybe it’s my nostalgic tendencies, but I miss the old times. I miss the times when the worst that happened was I ended up fully clothed in my bathtub with the shower water blasting on me until the hot water ran out and I woke with a shock. When I could recover from the aftermath of your visit within a day or even a morning. But now, it’s two or three full days of walking around in a zombie-like state before I’m back to normal.
I want to believe we can work this out, but honestly, you’re just kind of depressing me lately. We’ll just have to see how it goes next time.