Throwing Up Blue
You gotta draw the line somewhere
I’m glad they don’t make bathroom floors softer. I have been to homes where the bathroom floor is carpeted. That would never work for me while I was drinking. While it might be good in the winter with bare feet, it was not good for me in my youth. I needed a floor that was hard, cold, linoleum.
Admittedly, it’s been almost 30 years since I’ve had a drink, but the memories (or lack of) stay with me like a long lost horrible friend who happened to have found you on Facebook and no matter how many times you decline their friend request, it will pop up every so often.
There oughta be a law that states bathroom floors should be comfortably cold. After all, the porcelain of the toilet maintains that coolness while hugging it and pressing your face against its side like a baby boy to his mother’s cheek.
During my drinking days, my general choice of booze was “clear.” Whether it was gin or vodka, it really didn’t matter.
Tequila was even acceptable, but much harder to guzzle straight from the bottle. And there was that damn worm. I never drank tequila that had a worm in the bottle, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t eat a worm after drinking tequila (story for a different post, perhaps).
In a pinch, I drank whiskey or scotch, but my preference was always “clear.”
I had one rule that I had that was followed and obeyed until the day of my last drink, June 13, 1988.
Never drink anything that was blue. That line wasn’t drawn in sand. That line was carved in concrete.
I knew…I knew in the depths of my very soul, that drinking blue drinks would surely kill me. If I was in a bar and I saw someone drinking one, the hairs on the back of my neck stood up (I’m guessing that part…I could never really see the back of my neck).
I knew…I knew that if I had one blue drink, I was going to have many…many…many blue drinks.
I knew…I knew that while hugging that cool porcelain toilet like a life saver on the Titanic, that when I got sick and I could see that I was throwing up something blue…
