Tag Archives: vodka

Dear Vodka

16 Apr

Dear Vodka,

After much consideration and very little recollection, I have decided to break up with you.

We fell in love about 2 years ago, when a foot of snow was on the ground and my ex boyfriend had just broken up with me a week before Christmas. The liquor store on my street was open and that’s where we met. Remember that winter? It was fun. My fondest memory was when you made me chase a bunch of children and call them “little shits” after they threw snowballs at me.

You were there for me that day, Vodka, and we’ve been a great team ever since. One time you told me to punch a douche bag who was at the bar. That douche deserved it, and we saved an innocent guy from getting punched. Now that I think about it, that guy owed me a shot of you.

Still, I’m sorry–it’s over. Why? Last weekend alone did me in and I didn’t even throw up, end up in a strange bed, cry or drunk text an ex boyfriend (our most common offense, surely).

 

Don't judge me. You've been here, too.

 

I did, however, fall off a curb in front of a lot of people, I kissed and gave my number to a man who has “pleasure” tattooed on his neck, I braided a woman’s hair and I managed to eat a dog treat. Yes, a fucking dog treat. On Sunday morning, I woke up topless on my kitchen floor with my phone nestled in between my boobs. That was it for me–I knew we had gone too far.

Perhaps it was just because I tried your new peanut butter and jelly flavor, who knows….but really? A mother fucking dog treat? Seriously? A guy with “pleasure” tattooed on his neck? I can do better than this, Vodka. I am a classier gal than this.

I’ll probably be back, but for now I must bid you adieu.

Yours Truly,

Lauren Ann

My night with Wolfman Jack/The reason I stopped drinking cheap vodka

23 Sep

Last year at this time I was running around like a crazy person because I was moving, buying a house, celebrating my birthday, meeting my boyfriend and basically drinking every single night of the week at Frazier’s with my pal Dee Dee. One evening, when I finally had a few minutes to relax before going out, my brother showed me a clip from Burt Sugarman’s Midnight Special:

I enjoyed it, had a good laugh at pretty much everything happening in the video and moved on. My subconscious, however,  had different plans–that tart.

That night, while I slept, my subconscious awoke, got all skanked up and took me on over to the house of Wolfman Jack for perhaps the most disgusting sex dream experience that I’ve ever had in my life. It was awful. Thinking about it now sends shivers down my spine, and no, I don’t mean the good kind. Why would my subconscious betray me in this way? I thought we were friends, but no, not that night. That night my subconscious whore had sex with Wolfman Jack while You Sexy Thing played in the background on my subconscious stereo. Gross.

This is the look he had on his face the whole time:

How appalled are you right now?  Then, to make matters worse, Wolfman Jack kicked me out of his house after he was done. That ass! I didn’t have time to pick up my clothes so I walked home naked. My subconscious even went through the trouble of making the mascara run down my face as I cried. I was just so hurt that Wolfman Jack used me like that.

So what the hell? What did it all mean? Was that some sort of warning? Did Wolfman Jack’s ghost channel me through the cheap vodka I drank that night? How did my subconscious know his address? The world may never know.

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