So I just uncorked a bottle of Ezra Brooks Kentucky Straight Bourbon. Itís not something I generally drink, and since it was three dollars cheaper than the Jim Beam I usually imbibe, Iím a little distressed.
The last time I experimented around with cheap booze, I ended up with that hellish Early Times. I have friends who have since told me that they donít think Early Times is so bad, but they are obviously the undead, and I would stake them to death and burn their hearts on holy ground, except for they make me laugh quite a bit.
This Ezra Brooks stuff canít be as bad as that, right? It has a cork in it, which is a little strange. On my recent trip back home, a friend told me, ďIf it has a cork in it, it canít be that bad, right?Ē I canít remember what we were talking about, though, because it was one of those nights. You knowóone of those nights where you rationalize your actions and your bottles of booze by what theyíre plugged with.
Oh, and while weíre on the topic of disturbing shit, guess what time I woke up today. One. One oíclock in the afternoon. To some of you this might not seem like a big deal. But I am no longer one of those people that sleeps in until the afternoon.
I am one of those people that wakes up early in the morning, whether I like it or not. Sometimes, when Iím feeling really lazy (translated: hung over), Iíll sleep until nine in the morning, or ten at the latest.
One in the afternoon is not only ridiculous, but also a trifle unsettling. I remember opening my eyes, seeing it was seven oíclock, and going back to sleep. And then, itís one.
I was very disturbed by this, naturally assuming it was the symptom of some terrible disease that was probably going to rot things I donít want rotted. And of course, the doctors are going to make me quit drinkingótheyíre all the same, talking about how a liter of booze a day isnít good for you, no matter how many French studies you show them.
And then I staggered out to my computer and saw that I was still up and saving files at six in the morning. That explained everything, except for what the hell I was doing awake at six in the morning. Apparently, I was writing. A lot.
I looked over at my whiskey bottle, thinking that maybe I had just drank until blacking out, or something like that. There were two shots of Jim Beam left in my old bottle last night when I got home from work, and the bottle of Ezra Brooks hadnít been opened yet. Upon examination, I discovered that the two shots were gone, just as I remembered, and the seal on the Ezra Brooks was still intact.
Which meant that I hadnít been drinking much. Which meant that my assumption that I had written for an hour or two was incorrect. I had, in actuality, written for six hours.
Iíll be the first to admit that I lose track of time when I write, but I never realized that it was that out of control, and I never realized that I did it when I was sober.
When youíre drinking, you expect to lose track of thingsótime, car keys, your pants, whatever. Because what youíre doing, in essence, is poisoning your brain. I mean, you donít do something like that and not expect to lose a little time, right? Thatís why drunks are always so surprised when the bartender announces last call, and why morning seems to come so quickly.
But you arenít supposed to suffer problems like this when youíre sober. When youíre sober, youíre only supposed to have to deal with problems like finding booze.
Anyways, speaking of suffering, I just took a shot of the Brooks. Itís never going to replace watermelon as the best flavor Jolly Rancher, but as far as brain poison goes, itís not so bad.
So Iíll talk to you kids lateróI have to go looking for some lost time. And before anyone makes with the alien abduction/anal probe jokes, I just want to say, my anus felt like that before I lost time, so piss off.