I remember thinking that whiskey was cool. The idea was something akin to film-noir; that an added layer of grit invoked a realism, a naturalism, that would in turn lend credence to the whole work.
Delicious. Hard to swallow. Easy on the eye and easy down the throat. Numbing. Centering the problems instead of telling them to go away. Dreaming about better days dipped in the brown and white dye. Eating and drinking it with friends in a pool of your own vomit.
I love whiskey, I really like the burn. Kinda of like Brandy.
My grandma has this bottle of whiskey that has been in her house for ages! she says its for coughs.. I guess she is letting it cure out or something. I want it. but it’ll be strong. Yay.
THE MAN INGESTED THE WHISKEY, ITS COOL NATURAL FLAVORS BURNING HIS ESOPHOGUS AND COATING HIS DIGESTIVE TRACT THOROGHLY. HIS NIGHT WAS JUST BEGINNING, HIS LIFE WAS STARTING TH
first of all, whiskey is awesome. i love drinking whiskey, any time of day, any day of the week. as a matter of fact, i bought my roommate whiskey for his 21st birthday, knowing he would throw up from it. so, that happened, and i ended up drinking it, and going out til like 6 am and gettin trashed with soem guidos and hangin with some chicas and when i invited them back to my apartment they all said “No” and i ended up going home with some ugly chick, but thank god for whiskey dick cuz i could NOT get it up and therefore sent her PACKING! and saved my dignity.
His favorite drink is whiskey.
And in women his taste is dusky
Lambs in season are frisky
And some birds are really pesky
These lines sound silly
What the heck, I had nothing else to say on whiskey.
I went home smiling. It had been a nice day but when I walked through the door of my house the smile was wiped off my face with a backhanded slap. I looked up, tears in my eyes to see the blurry image of Tommy standing there with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. As my vision cleared I could see that his eyes were blood-shot and his skin was flushed. “I done told you once, you bitch, don’t be home too late.” He’d never told me this once but I knew not too argue. I told him how sorry I was but just as the words escaped my mouth I was rewarded with a punch to the stomach that left me curled on the floor. I looked up to see a demon shape advancing towards me, excitedly clenching and un-clenching his fists. He couldn’t wait to crack me open and see what was inside.
Whiskey bottle. Smooth and cold on my face. Attempting to douse the fire erupting underneath my skin. It’s spilling out my finger tips. I can’t catch it. It’s pouring down my stomach and legs. Everything.
I sat there with a bottle of whiskey, tilting my head back and laughing ’til my sides hurt and my eyes watered. Sometimes you gotta laugh to keep from crying.
Oh lord. Those nights of sitting outside, card table and bottle of whiskey in front of us. Laughing at nothing, talking till the sun came up. Throwing secrets down alongside our cards. Those nights, those nights are the ones I’m going to remember.
It was my first shot of whiskey. The taste was awful and I felt completely sinful for allowing it in my system. My innocence was becoming drunk. Was I drunk? I was so naive. So this was the monster that took him over…
She took a drink, slammed the glass on the counter. Fuck him. And the horse he rode in on. Who was he to tell her how to live her life? Clean up her act? Find God, or Mohammed or St. Joan of Arc. If she wanted to waste what was left of her days on this stool in this bar in this small town she damn well would.
She looked around. He’d left. Really left this time. She looked back at the glass, silently stunned that it was really all she had left. The bartender tipped the whiskey bottle, clinking it against the lip of the glass. The last of the fluid rolled in, a few drops slinking back to the bottom of the bottle.
Like the last few breaths of a woman waiting to die. Here on this chair, in this bar, in this small town.
The whiskey bottle shatter on the floor. The pieces of glass looked brassy from the liquid, and the man’s head sloshed back and forth, wondering what he was doing at 3 in the morning drinking whiskey and losing his mind to love.
The popping of a cork. The sloshing sound of amber liquid pouring into a glass. A pause. More sloshing, as it pours into the other glass. A clink, followed by a murmur of appreciation.
He picked up the bottle and let the amber liquid run hot down his throat like a wild fire raging against his tonsils, but this was normal and it was only the first sip that burned something fierce. How could he change his habits now at the ago of 46? It was only normal for an unmarried man of that age to sit in his patched overalls and worn out boots at the old wooden bar where everyone knew his name, greeted him with a smile, and called him the town drunk as soon as his head hit the top of the bar and the drool oozed out in a puddle to illuminate his slumber.
Whiskey puts a fire inside of you that it’ll take sleep and coffee to extinguish, makes your mind slow and your wit fast, makes you a superhuman, makes you a supreme dumbass, but it’s all dependent on your perspective, darling.
The whiskey went down much better than expected. She took swigs of it easily. She knew she probably shouldn’t, there would be consequences later. It was the “when in Rome” situation and she figured she might as well, as long as she still could.
Whiskey smells like the country, soothing as it traces its way down into your stomach, making you want nothing more than to be basking in the sunlight. I find myself more free when there is whiskey in my hand, but maybe thats just me. I can’t say that its not something I am afraid of because I find that is simply acts as a medium between me and another reality.
whiskey tastes really good when on debate trips because it means we’re talking and having a good time, not worrying about the bullshit of the day or worrying about whether or not we’ll amount to anything in the long run. it is in Kentucky where the best whiskey is made and I have to say that by far, it will always be my favorite.
I fondled through the silky, ruffled fabric looking for the sweet flavor I so enjoy. I found only a dusty bottle of whiskey from 1856. Where’s a bottle of gin when I need it!?
She had waited all her life for some magical witch to whisk her away, off into a gigantic castle in the clouds, where everything was the color of the psychedelic rainbow. Tonight she met such a witch, and so began their journey.
Take a shot of whiskey, forget what’s going to happen. Take a shot of whiskey forget what has already happened. Take a shot of whiskey, whisk away the evening, whisk into bed with a stranger and let mistakes happen. Take a shot of whiskey to forget they even happened.
The second bottle exploded on the fence post. Despite the flying shrapnel, its cousins remained standing.
“Good shot,” Stephan remarked, pointing down the row. “Now hit that old whiskey flask.”
Toppling over into the storm drain, he held onto the precious bottle; it was all he had left to his name, this cheap whiskey. He carefully unscrewed the cap, watching the golden liquid swirl around from the movement. He drank the bottle in one gulp, not minding the horrid sensation it caused on the way down. If this was the last thing he had, why not make use of it?
I don’t like liquor. Not that I’ve ever tried any (besides a sip of wine every now and then), even though I’m of age now, and I don’t intend to. I’ve had some unpleasant experiences caused by other people partaking in it.
Plus I’ve smelled whiskey once, and vodka, because I was curious. *Ugh.* I don’t understand how anything that smells like that can taste good. It’s so medicinal.
And, oh yeah, it makes people do stupid things. So I kind of sort of hate it.
Childish, maybe, but that’s just how I feel.
Whiskey is what mattered most to her since dad left. She drank to ignore mom, she drank to ignore me, she drank to ignore her own depression. Whiskey, that god damned bottle became her life.
She loved the bottle, and it seemed to love her. Whiskey, rum, vodka…it didn’t matter. Just as long as she was pleasantly drunk, life was good. It was her reality, her life, and it was good.
I remember thinking that whiskey was cool. The idea was something akin to film-noir; that an added layer of grit invoked a realism, a naturalism, that would in turn lend credence to the whole work.
Delicious. Hard to swallow. Easy on the eye and easy down the throat. Numbing. Centering the problems instead of telling them to go away. Dreaming about better days dipped in the brown and white dye. Eating and drinking it with friends in a pool of your own vomit.
I love whiskey, I really like the burn. Kinda of like Brandy.
My grandma has this bottle of whiskey that has been in her house for ages! she says its for coughs.. I guess she is letting it cure out or something. I want it. but it’ll be strong. Yay.
Whiskey burns. Well I would imagine that it burns. Like vodka or tequila. I drank that stuff once and now I can’t use hand sanitizer.
whiskey which cowboy drinks to get himself feel happy. Think nothing of the world but just happy! yeha!
Whiskey, the name of my dog, cat and mouse. Maybe if I’d given them a less troublesome name my house would still be in one piece…
THE MAN INGESTED THE WHISKEY, ITS COOL NATURAL FLAVORS BURNING HIS ESOPHOGUS AND COATING HIS DIGESTIVE TRACT THOROGHLY. HIS NIGHT WAS JUST BEGINNING, HIS LIFE WAS STARTING TH
first of all, whiskey is awesome. i love drinking whiskey, any time of day, any day of the week. as a matter of fact, i bought my roommate whiskey for his 21st birthday, knowing he would throw up from it. so, that happened, and i ended up drinking it, and going out til like 6 am and gettin trashed with soem guidos and hangin with some chicas and when i invited them back to my apartment they all said “No” and i ended up going home with some ugly chick, but thank god for whiskey dick cuz i could NOT get it up and therefore sent her PACKING! and saved my dignity.
His favorite drink is whiskey.
And in women his taste is dusky
Lambs in season are frisky
And some birds are really pesky
These lines sound silly
What the heck, I had nothing else to say on whiskey.
I went home smiling. It had been a nice day but when I walked through the door of my house the smile was wiped off my face with a backhanded slap. I looked up, tears in my eyes to see the blurry image of Tommy standing there with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. As my vision cleared I could see that his eyes were blood-shot and his skin was flushed. “I done told you once, you bitch, don’t be home too late.” He’d never told me this once but I knew not too argue. I told him how sorry I was but just as the words escaped my mouth I was rewarded with a punch to the stomach that left me curled on the floor. I looked up to see a demon shape advancing towards me, excitedly clenching and un-clenching his fists. He couldn’t wait to crack me open and see what was inside.
Whiskey bottle. Smooth and cold on my face. Attempting to douse the fire erupting underneath my skin. It’s spilling out my finger tips. I can’t catch it. It’s pouring down my stomach and legs. Everything.
I sat there with a bottle of whiskey, tilting my head back and laughing ’til my sides hurt and my eyes watered. Sometimes you gotta laugh to keep from crying.
Oh lord. Those nights of sitting outside, card table and bottle of whiskey in front of us. Laughing at nothing, talking till the sun came up. Throwing secrets down alongside our cards. Those nights, those nights are the ones I’m going to remember.
The whiskey burned my lips the first time I drank it. It burned my lips and numbed my soul. I knew then that I had met my mentor.
It was my first shot of whiskey. The taste was awful and I felt completely sinful for allowing it in my system. My innocence was becoming drunk. Was I drunk? I was so naive. So this was the monster that took him over…
She took a drink, slammed the glass on the counter. Fuck him. And the horse he rode in on. Who was he to tell her how to live her life? Clean up her act? Find God, or Mohammed or St. Joan of Arc. If she wanted to waste what was left of her days on this stool in this bar in this small town she damn well would.
She looked around. He’d left. Really left this time. She looked back at the glass, silently stunned that it was really all she had left. The bartender tipped the whiskey bottle, clinking it against the lip of the glass. The last of the fluid rolled in, a few drops slinking back to the bottom of the bottle.
Like the last few breaths of a woman waiting to die. Here on this chair, in this bar, in this small town.
Whiskey or wine, lemon or lime?
I’m caught up and messed up for no reason or rhyme
Am I yours? Or are you mine?
The whiskey bottle shatter on the floor. The pieces of glass looked brassy from the liquid, and the man’s head sloshed back and forth, wondering what he was doing at 3 in the morning drinking whiskey and losing his mind to love.
The popping of a cork. The sloshing sound of amber liquid pouring into a glass. A pause. More sloshing, as it pours into the other glass. A clink, followed by a murmur of appreciation.
dont drink. just dont. its one of those things where you want to ask, “why?”
Whiskey is a hard drink; firm, strong, almost bitter. I have very little experience with it, so I’m not sure what that says about me.
The bottle was a;most empty beside his bed. His mouth was furry and his head was a sea of pain. Beside him was a goat.
He picked up the bottle and let the amber liquid run hot down his throat like a wild fire raging against his tonsils, but this was normal and it was only the first sip that burned something fierce. How could he change his habits now at the ago of 46? It was only normal for an unmarried man of that age to sit in his patched overalls and worn out boots at the old wooden bar where everyone knew his name, greeted him with a smile, and called him the town drunk as soon as his head hit the top of the bar and the drool oozed out in a puddle to illuminate his slumber.
Whiskey puts a fire inside of you that it’ll take sleep and coffee to extinguish, makes your mind slow and your wit fast, makes you a superhuman, makes you a supreme dumbass, but it’s all dependent on your perspective, darling.
The whiskey went down much better than expected. She took swigs of it easily. She knew she probably shouldn’t, there would be consequences later. It was the “when in Rome” situation and she figured she might as well, as long as she still could.
Whiskey smells like the country, soothing as it traces its way down into your stomach, making you want nothing more than to be basking in the sunlight. I find myself more free when there is whiskey in my hand, but maybe thats just me. I can’t say that its not something I am afraid of because I find that is simply acts as a medium between me and another reality.
whiskey tastes really good when on debate trips because it means we’re talking and having a good time, not worrying about the bullshit of the day or worrying about whether or not we’ll amount to anything in the long run. it is in Kentucky where the best whiskey is made and I have to say that by far, it will always be my favorite.
with or without the e
brown sweetness
liquid courage
to do what you already want
I fondled through the silky, ruffled fabric looking for the sweet flavor I so enjoy. I found only a dusty bottle of whiskey from 1856. Where’s a bottle of gin when I need it!?
She had waited all her life for some magical witch to whisk her away, off into a gigantic castle in the clouds, where everything was the color of the psychedelic rainbow. Tonight she met such a witch, and so began their journey.
Take a shot of whiskey, forget what’s going to happen. Take a shot of whiskey forget what has already happened. Take a shot of whiskey, whisk away the evening, whisk into bed with a stranger and let mistakes happen. Take a shot of whiskey to forget they even happened.
The second bottle exploded on the fence post. Despite the flying shrapnel, its cousins remained standing.
“Good shot,” Stephan remarked, pointing down the row. “Now hit that old whiskey flask.”
Toppling over into the storm drain, he held onto the precious bottle; it was all he had left to his name, this cheap whiskey. He carefully unscrewed the cap, watching the golden liquid swirl around from the movement. He drank the bottle in one gulp, not minding the horrid sensation it caused on the way down. If this was the last thing he had, why not make use of it?
Is distilled in burnt kegs. They purify it through burnt charcoal, in a system developed by people who think they know that charcoal can’t be burned.
I don’t like liquor. Not that I’ve ever tried any (besides a sip of wine every now and then), even though I’m of age now, and I don’t intend to. I’ve had some unpleasant experiences caused by other people partaking in it.
Plus I’ve smelled whiskey once, and vodka, because I was curious. *Ugh.* I don’t understand how anything that smells like that can taste good. It’s so medicinal.
And, oh yeah, it makes people do stupid things. So I kind of sort of hate it.
Childish, maybe, but that’s just how I feel.
Whiskey is what mattered most to her since dad left. She drank to ignore mom, she drank to ignore me, she drank to ignore her own depression. Whiskey, that god damned bottle became her life.
Liquid Gold in a glass. Icecubes refresh it. Mix it with Coke, that’s metal!
She loved the bottle, and it seemed to love her. Whiskey, rum, vodka…it didn’t matter. Just as long as she was pleasantly drunk, life was good. It was her reality, her life, and it was good.
самоощущение
The Irish perfected this amber liquid. In my opinion the drop of water completes the lovely sinking into an armchair and sipping this drink.