bottle 11 or i hate bottle eleven

restraint, even when attempted, doesn’t seem to play out. best intentions are fine and all until the rubber hits the road and your 8 shots deep,  confused and bumbling. with the sweet taste of whiskey caught in your throat you thrust deeper into the bottle. this even after you tried to tell yourself that it wouldn’t go down this way. it’s all smiles and loud talking.

you make an error that makes you appear drunker than you are and get disappointed. worried even. most people are cops. or freemasons. or both. then something or another happens and you apparently go to bed. you wake up and your mouth tastes like an ashtray that someone poured fighting cock in to. and a new day begins.

the lesson is that going up against social anxiety with a fifth of liquor is one method. but it will not afford the restraint you want, if that’s your kind of deal.