"...and I want it to either have zero ice or one big square ice cube"
my requirements as well, respect. Quality wise? The less frequently I drink the choosier I am, so standards are at an all-time high.
Also thank you for the grasshopper shout-out. It's hard to find a place I can order one but perhaps that could be fixed by spending more time in the South/Eastern seaboard?
Recently diagnosed with autoimmune shit. I feel this. Someone evil is keeping the gluten and wine from me. Also, reckoning with mortality and the lack of control/fallibility/fragility of this hunk of flesh, is, something.
All I wanna do is wallow in swear words, 'cause damn, girl ... I battle this in boring words every day, too. I reverse-engineer it, though, to uncover the cause way before root, down to the seed, so I can see, see, see with clarity, if not with words, where those cravings come from and why, and 'til the day I die I will struggle with the line, and everything has a bloody line and I hate lines. I hated paint by number because it was all lines and no guts nor glory, and damn was they ugly. Those lines are, irl, our saving grace but I hate them, and I hate nothing because hate is a line, too. And I love them, too, because crossing those lines reveals where the truth is if we're brave enough to look and confess. As Albert Camus said, and I only quote for my own validation, "Always go too far, because that's where you'll find the truth."
"...and I want it to either have zero ice or one big square ice cube"
my requirements as well, respect. Quality wise? The less frequently I drink the choosier I am, so standards are at an all-time high.
Also thank you for the grasshopper shout-out. It's hard to find a place I can order one but perhaps that could be fixed by spending more time in the South/Eastern seaboard?
Ah fuck man, sorry. I've just learned to like the fact that I can fall out of bed in the morning and still feel decent.
Recently diagnosed with autoimmune shit. I feel this. Someone evil is keeping the gluten and wine from me. Also, reckoning with mortality and the lack of control/fallibility/fragility of this hunk of flesh, is, something.
"Tell me more about non-addicted brains. What do they like to think about? Dirt? Birds?"
As someone addicted to both dirt (well, soil) AND birds, and enjoys wine with both...I can't help, but I do recommend swapping queso for them.
All I wanna do is wallow in swear words, 'cause damn, girl ... I battle this in boring words every day, too. I reverse-engineer it, though, to uncover the cause way before root, down to the seed, so I can see, see, see with clarity, if not with words, where those cravings come from and why, and 'til the day I die I will struggle with the line, and everything has a bloody line and I hate lines. I hated paint by number because it was all lines and no guts nor glory, and damn was they ugly. Those lines are, irl, our saving grace but I hate them, and I hate nothing because hate is a line, too. And I love them, too, because crossing those lines reveals where the truth is if we're brave enough to look and confess. As Albert Camus said, and I only quote for my own validation, "Always go too far, because that's where you'll find the truth."