So, this one time, a coupla friends and I had a run-in with a bottle of Jameson and afterward (once I could stand up again), I wrote a letter of complaint to the whiskey for its treatment of me. Not the company, mind you, the actual liquor. I do love me some whiskey, but I also love me some vodka – which was the next liquor that I wrote to. Here it is.
Sweetheart, I know we’ve had our troubles. I know all too well. There was that time you gave me the spins after my cousin’s wedding; I almost puked on the best man. Then there was that time in high school, the spring play, backstage. You nearly got me expelled. We’ve had our differences, sure. But we can get past that, right?
I know, I know. We have to talk about my birthday. Those margaritas – they meant nothing to me, really. You know what a whore tequila is. All dressed up in strawberries and that curvy little glass. I was at a Mexican restaurant for christsakes! What did you expect me to do? Does a man go to a strip club without ordering a lap dance? No! Which is why I couldn’t enjoy those chips and guac without a little sweet sauce on the side. You know there’s nothing between me and tequila – I was thinking of you bathed in cranberry juice the whole time, I promise.
And there’s something else I have to confess. You’d better sit down for this one. Ready? I’m still seeing shots of Jameson on the side. I know, how stupid can I be? After how he’s treated me. He’s pushed me around more than once and whenever we get into it, I always have to wear sunglasses the next day. I guess I like the bad boys. I can’t help myself.
I’m just…I guess I’m just not a one spirit woman. Can you still love me that way? You have to know, deep down, you’re the only one for me. When I go to my neighborhood bar and my friendly bartender says “The usual?” we both know he means you. The chill down my throat, the warmth in my stomach, there’s no one else like you sweetie, I swear. You’re my usual, baby, you Russian minx and I love you.