Written while drinking Whiskey.
It’s your standard oak-aged Bourbon, mediocre at best.
It tastes like musk and power.
It’s strong enough to burn going down but has flavor that reminds me of scruff and cigarettes.
I’m in love with whiskey.
It’s the man I want more than anyone in the world. It’s complex, it’s decadent, and it’s simple.
I don’t mix it with anything.
It is old fashioned, it is timeless, it is cities and history and conversations waiting to happen.
It’s a fireplace and movies and ice melting in an empty glass.
It is orange rinds and cherry stems and tongues touching on a wraparound couch.
Whiskey is my stories. My nationality. My buzz.
When I draw at night it gives me a sweet hum that propels me forward when wine holds me back.
Men say they love a woman who drinks whiskey.
I love a man who can hold down a conversation about scotch without flinching.
My grandpa introduced me to scotch. Mostly Johnnie Walker, Glenlevit: what he’s been drinking since my mom was born.
It tastes like being one of the grandsons, talking about life, missing my Grandma together, grabbing the “good ice” and pouring two fingers without a shot glass.
It is pushing the straw to the side with your pointer finger, and letting the ice tap your top lip.
It is sensual, it is vintage, it is beer backed when you’re drunk and shooting bottom shelf.
Whiskey is chocolate truffles and sex and condensation.
Forgotten highball glasses covered in fingerprints.
Whiskey is a woman with full lips and a quick wit. Rude when she’s bored and sassy when she’s drunk.
Grab me another, babe.
Come back, sit down. Taste the cold in my mouth and let me taste the spirit on your neck. When we come back to our drinks, they’ll be old fashioned.
Nothing gets between my Bourbon and me.
