With four to five slugs of whiskey in me, topped off by a 24 oz. beer, it’s a wonder that I can even type. (My liver is just a detoxifying machine, baby!)

I mean, yeah, I know, I probably shouldn’t be drinking, what with the fact that alcohol can adversely react with the medication that I’m on, and that alcohol itself is a depressant, but, well, how could I possibly say no to the prospect of free drinks?

So EO hooks us up and brings me, Y, and R to a Dewar’s tasting party, and I proceed to get sloppy drunk, despite the fact that it is a Tuesday. (Ah, Tuesdays.)

In this hour, with my liver diligently converting ethanol into acetaldehyde, I can’t but help reflect that, seriously, there is no hope.

There is nothing new under the sun.

I am truly, utterly alone.

So be it.

Bring it on.