EtOH

Young wine is called "must". It steeps, heavy with the stems, the seeds, the skins. A decadent, virgin pulp.

I like that it's called "must". There is something eerily poetic about "duty", about "necessity", and about "insistence". There is meaning behind something that cannot be put off.

It's fitting though, in the way alcohol works. In the way wine loosens your tongue and softens your expression. In the way spirits make these moments linger, like they are all you really have. In the way liquor turns your hesitance into action, and your "maybe"s into "must"s.

See what I did there?

You drink with me when things go right, when things go wrong. When things are right, we celebrate. The word "bubbly" has connotations: of girls with high spirits, of soapy bathwater, of champagne. Cheers to the joie de vivre.

When things are wrong, we commiserate. Looking at the bottom of the glass like a wishing well. Misery loves company, and company is always welcomed with a drink. In medical labs, you learn a few tricks about cleaning bloody messes. Water rinses. Bleach disinfects. Alcohol fixes.

Sounds about right.

Alcohol is a solution. Literally, figuratively. It's social lube, is what it is. It makes us greasy and easy and hard to grasp, so that we can slip in and out of each other's psyche like eels. It makes you less of who you are and more of who you want to be.

Is that better? TBD.

1 shot, you promise, 1 shot for the night. But lest we forget, sometimes it only takes 1. Bloodshot, out of earshot, gun shot. Loaded gun complex, we pull back, shoot, get through it. It's a minute (read: mĭn′ĭt or mī-no͞ot) pain - you want seconds. You want "lost count"s. You want "shootout"s, "blackout"s, old western movies. Point blank, gun it. 

1 shot to end the night.

If you ask me, I like you after three. Loose yet lucid, present yet fluid. Tell me now, be honest. How many parallel li(n/v)es do you think intersected, from a drink too far and an inhibition too few? From cocktails like wizards, writing mathemagic, spitting fairy truths. How many drinks must I put back, until I like this blurry v(i/er)sion of you?