That's Not My Drink

I just went out for a drink for the first time in months. I ordered a Vodka Fizz, a drink that modestly consists of VODKA, lemon, and soda water. Not too hard right? I have never sent a drink back in my life, it's not my style, but when you serve me vodka and lemon juice in a dirty and chipped martini glass, with flat soda water on the side, well, you better cup your balls, because I will be coming for you. So I went up to the bar and flashed my gums and said, in absolutely the most apologetic way ever (because actually, I am a pussy when it comes down to actual confrontation), "I'm sorry, but this isn't my drink." The bartender said that it was and I pulled out the menu to show him that it wasn't. I even told him how to make it, and afterwards apologized again, saying I didn't want to be an asshole (yes, I said asshole), but that I wanted a Vodka Fizz. I could tell the guy I hated me from the moment I walked up to the bar with the drink in my hand, so I guess I should have not been surprised when he brought me another drink, and it turned out to be made with gin. I can't drink gin. Gin and I aren't friends, and haven't been since that Thursday night back in high school, when I was chugging gin from the bottle, cramming potato chips by the fistful into my mouth to get the taste out (I was left home alone a lot, and boredom always found a way to get me to hunch over a toilet bowl before bed). So I sat there with a motherfucking Gin Fizz (which I am sure they just dumped from one glass into another), and I wasn't about to take it back. I sat there, enjoyed the company, and left no tip. I can imagine the ending of that long tirade was a bit lack-luster, but it was my first night out in months. Give me time.

Here it is, second night in a row!

Tonight's Highlight:

"My beans are locked tight in the cupboard, and I've misplaced the key."

Chicken: Love for Sale on the Streets of Hollywood, David Henry Sterry
(Yellow highlighter: thick line)