“We walk like warriors, we were never told to run.”
-Common
I was a late bloomer to the world of alcohol. New Years Eve, 2008, me and Jonathan Alvarez stood in front of a leaky freezer, holding a near empty bottle of Grey Goose, and pouring ourselves a shot. Vodka snatches a lot of peoples drinking cherries. Women will be drinking it from the time they’re fourteen to the time that they’re forty. Men outgrow it, excluding instances of scarcity or when a morning screwdriver feels better than a morning coffee. For me? Vodka has never tasted good. I’ve taken a straight shot of Bacardi 151, I’ve killed a bottle of Everclear, I’ve taken ten shots of Jim Beam over the course of an hour and nothing burns like vodka. Vodka tastes a lot like what a machine would drink: manufactured, weak, and trying it’s best to immitate the pure strength of other liquors at half the price.
I drank a bottle of vodka this weekend.
Vodka and my tastebuds don’t go well together.
I was a late bloomer to the world of love. A date long forgotten in April, 2006, me and a girl whose name is unimportant sat in front of a Little Caesars. The asphalt cooling our bottoms, laughter coating the air, and me trying not to stare at the awkward girl in front of me. I fell in love with her that day, I forgot her when school ended for the summer, I fell in love with her when I spent an entire movie next to her and she said hi to me again. I put all my expectations on her-- she rejected me. I got angry--she still stood by the fact that I was a nice guy. She got heart broken --I ended up counseling the person who broke my heart about heart break. We forgot eachother, we spoke in passing, and that was that. Most men forget a girl who doesn’t fuck them, doesn’t go out with them, and leaves them be…unless of course they hook up with her on a Christmas break years after those transactions. I’ve made out with strangers, I’ve talked to girls who want nothing more than to screw the living hell out of me, I’ve been rejected and stood up, and nothing ever compared to the hold this girl had –and still has- over me.
I talked to this girl this week.
This girl and my heart don’t go well together.
It’s strange. I’ve had other relationships, I’ve flirted my ass off, I’ve partied, and I’ve built up a tolerance to rejection: but much like vodka, the mere memory of the hurting this girl put on me stays plastered on my mind. An emotional PTSD. This summer I read a book called ‘The Game’, it talked about Oneitis and all that, but this isn’t Oneitis. I don’t talk to this girl anymore, I don’t dote on what she needs, I’ve seperated myself from her. She has this power because of who I am. An emotional packrat incapable of letting things go, a man who projects what he wants on girls and accepts their flaws due to them having strengths that may not even exist. I’m an emotional man who thinks he’s too smart to be effected by emotions.
And I can’t fight it.
Vodka will always be there. It will be floating in the screwdrivers I love, it will be floating in a lot of things. A man called Whiskey told me that vodka is special in that it mixes with anything and tastes good. This girl? She’s vodka. She will be there no matter what I do. I can’t run away from her, I can’t be her friend, and I can’t do anything but think of times where she fucked me over (and the drunk fun that followed). I’m incapable of running from her, I can only carry her with me everywhere I go.
Tio’s Liquors is having a special on vodka: ten dollars for a pint of Russian Exports. With only one hundred dollars in my bank account…me and vodka will be getting really familiar over the next couple months.This girl goes to UM, with a tattoo of Sebastian the Ibis on my back…it’s only a matter of time before we see eachother again.
And I will be ready.
