I’ll start right off by apologising to those who are reading this who are or have been struggling with an alcohol addiction. I’m not trying to be disrespectful. If alcohol-containing or -related posts are difficult for you to read, skip the ones with the Scotchtober tag — which won’t be until next month anyway. (Not counting this post, obviously.)
Dahakha challenged me — in jest, I’m sure — to post a daily pic of me having a tequila during Tequilatember. While that does appeal, October is my birthday month which sort of justifies me drinking a little more. And I prefer scotch, which goes well with October, so there we have it. Scotchtober.
If I do it, you’ll likely get grainy, hand-shaky shots of whiskey glasses, because I’m not happy with myself in photographs. (Sort of like Darth Vader wasn’t happy with the Light Side.)
It’s just silly enough to appeal to me, and a shot of Scotch every evening is supposed to be good for you, right? I’m utterly not afraid of this going down a dreadfully slippery slope paved with Glenlivet bottles because last New Year’s Eve was, how do I put it, my liver’s cry for mercy. And I listened. Being sick as a dog for 2 days worked wonders on my hearing.
I’ve never been a particularly heavy drinker, or a drinker at all outside social events. My problem is that the older I get, the less I can handle my liquor. And I most certainly did drink too much at NYE. Lesson, apparently, learned. Whenever I try to drink too much now my brain, liver, pancreas and toenails say NO! Probably a useful thing, that, given the damage my dad did to his own liver over a lifetime of functional alcoholism.
Yikes, we’re getting way too serious here again.
There’s nothing new under the Corpse here today anyway. My brain is slowly being fried by sleeping in discrete packets of 2-3 hours at a time during the night to feed those
voracious little bastards I was foolish enough to take on lovely baby mice we rescued. I’m an 8-hours a night kinda girl, especially these days (anxiety meds tend to have that effect, at least one me). Fortunately the spousal unit is ex-Navy and quite accustomed to getting up at WTF-o’clock and, more importantly, to waking my ungrateful and grumbling ass up when required.
The babbies are growing — it doesn’t seem that way to me, but I think I’ve gone all Jewish mother on them: they’re always too skinny, not clean enough, and they never call or write. Night 3 came and went and they’re all still with us, all getting darker and more furry (well, fuzzy at the moment), all wrigglier than anything that small has any right to be. They have distinct fingers and little claws, tiny little whiskers, and apparently the teeth are coming in too; they can’t bite yet but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before I become victim #1.
And that’s it. Go read someone else now! I wasn’t going to post at all today, dammit!