That was the last thing I remember drinking; champagne. After the Vodka, the Tequilla, the Rum. Champagne was the last one I remember. Could have been more, I’ll have to check my card history. Not sure why I chose it. Bit of class? Would have taken a lot of that to get me feeling decent. I’m not a slob in the least. I work, pay my taxes, play the society game. I won’t go on and on about alcohol, because it’s all the same tunes. Escaping yourself, letting your hair down, having a good time. It’s just a mystery; champagne. Why? Maybe I felt high and mighty. Maybe I thought my bank balance was bigger than it actually is. Maybe so I could add it to the list, so I could reel off the different types of booze that had collectively given someone permission to host a rave in my skull.
Perhaps it was the girl. She might have asked for it. I might have asked her. Just another mystery; I might remember later. I didn’t puke; no way in hell. Not after champagne. That was some fortuitous willpower; holding my stomach against the sway of the taxi, feeling it rise up, but not giving in. I always think of a brass band playing to take my mind off it.
Then I think of the coots that drink it all the time. It’s a leisurely thing, but so is chinning four shots of Tequilla in a row, no lime. I guess I’ll never really understand.
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