drinking

Happy Old Fashioned Friday. This week’s edition features Bittercube’s Limited Batch Barrel Aged Cherry bitters and some Bulleit Bourbon. Their Black Cherry bitters are already a part of my collection, and delicious, so naturally I had to pick these up.

The Barrel Aged Cherry are extremely smooth and not nearly as bitter as their Black Cherry counterparts, & you can pick up hints of all spice and cinnamon in there as well. Bulleit Bourbon brings out the savory character of these bitters even more. I garnished with my usual blood orange after the first sip, because I can.

Overall I definitely rank these above the standard Black Cherry offering from Bittercube and due to the limited nature of their release, I definitely suggest grabbing a bottle and adding it to your collection. 

It’s Friday, pour yourself a glass of whiskey, you made it. Cheers.

Tonight, I am alive save for the moonlight; the way it drips like the paint kept running. I’m watching Jupiter with a wineglass of stars in my left hand. The warm wind rests against my freckled skin. An owl lays in a palm frond behind me. 
Tonight, I am toasting into the dark alone;
thanking it for sharing
this romance if for no one but me.
—  Schuyler Peck, March 27th
Drinking is an emotional thing. It joggles you out of the standardism of everyday life, out of everything being the same. It yanks you out of your body and your mind and throws you against the wall. I have the feeling that drinking is a form of suicide where you’re allowed to return to life and begin all over the next day. It’s like killing yourself, and then you’re reborn. I guess I’ve lived about ten or fifteen thousand lives now.
—  Charles Bukowski

I need so badly for my words to be important
for my chords to rise violent chills 
in goosebumps on thighs and forearms

I crave the sharp inhale and the turned head
after reading words that read you like an X-ray
radioactive and degenerative but never, ever fading
not really

She’s talking about stoic philosophy from 55 CE and there’s piano music playing that reminds me of being 8 years old listening to my mom’s CDs and in my mind everything is the color of rose petals

I haven’t been able to write in three months
but now there’s alcohol and I can’t stop feeling.
I am a fucking volcano.

—  The Color of Rose Petals /.w.m.w.

All I know of hope is its transience
My mother’s Bible on the dining room table
the morning after I swore, my cheeks wet and cold, that I met God.
My mother’s rage not a week later.

The two women I love the most are with me in the same room
I know what you’re thinking, but this isn’t a major, climactic conflict or a lover’s firing squad
I’m a little sober now (barely)
but I can scarcely hold my head up

The worst thing is there’s nothing I can do to convince you I still would have fallen in love with you sober

And now I’ve drunk so much that the room spins harshly to my left when I close my eyes, a vertigo that doesn’t stop when I open them again.

—  Degenerating /.w.m.w.
And it’s at 3 AM, when my cheeks are stained with tears and the blankets fail to provide me with the same warmth you always did, that I can hear my heart beating to the rhythm of your name.
—  i will never stop missing you