I’m in the mood to fucking drink.

I’m in the mood to get fall-down, piss-stinking, bar-fighting, crazy-talking, fuck-anything-that-moves drunk.

This kind of drunk, it has to be, has to be tequila.

There’s a magic about tequila. I don’t mean a fairies and sunshine, glinda-the-good-witch sort of magic. No, this is a bad-juju-bart-no-like magic. This is a dark-fire-in-the-skull magic.

The old joke goes there’s a reason they call it ‘ta kill ya.

Tequila isn’t a beverage. Fuck people who serve it in snifters and pretend it’s cognac. Tequila is a drug. Tequila is meant to be shot, gulped, slammed, pounded. Sucked from a bottle, or if you’re really, really lucky, from a beautiful woman’s mouth. It’s not for fucking sipping. You want to taste it more? Drink more.

I don’t particularly like expensive, super-high-end tequila. Fact is, I’d rather drink a good blanco than a great anejo. The anejo tastes good, sure, but tequila needs to bite. Tequila needs to hurt you when it goes down.

You know what I hate? When people call the lime and salt training wheels. The lime and salt is ritual. It’s part of the process, like rolling a joint or cutting out a line or prepping a shot. And it tastes good, dammit. It’s flavor compliment; it’s not to cover the taste, it’s to enhance it, like seasoning on a steak. I don’t care how good that steak is, without salt and pepper, it’s just flesh. With the seasonings, it’s cuisine.

Give me a shot, make it two, make it three, and quickly, fucking quickly.

Alas.

I’m off to meet a friend for dinner, and you know, I must be a grownup. It’s tuesday, and I have to work tomorrow, and so does he, and I’ll have a twenty-five mile drive home after I drop him at his hotel. So this isn’t the night for fighting and fucking some stranger. We’ll have a few, I’m certain, but…

Sometimes it sucks being a grown-up.

Raincheck on that, ok? I need that tequila drunk. I haven’t been good and pissed since St. Patrick’s day, and that was on on Irish. I’m still needing that tequila drunk, and soon.