drinking my way out

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Ever since I decided to dump this dump and move again in 2017, I have refused to buy alcohol. Oh, I haven't stopped drinking—see "dump," above—I've just been reducing the weight of my moving truck, one bottle at a time.

First to go were the bourbons. Slurp! Then whiskey and rye and scotch. Next to go was gin. I barely remember Gin Month. Rum was a delightful couple of weeks, but all I have left now is Malibu, which scarcely qualifies. Next up is vodka. After that, things get dire.

Logically, tequila is next, that most nasty of staples. I don't know if I can do it. But the alternative is all the random crap I've accumulated over the past 20 years. The peach schnapps for Allie. The drambuie for Phil. The kahlua for Dorkass back when she was fun, so you know it's old indeed. The creme de menthe for Chandra. The Jaeger for Mark. The butterscotch schnapps for that 19 year old girl back in 1998. [Googles her. Yep, still hot. Sigh.]

It's a memorial in liquid form. I've put time in a bottle.