One Beer: Little buzz. Just a tad, a soft pleasant scratch behind the ears. Watching the football. Feels good to drink a cold one and watch men bash the living daylights out of each other, while watching sport.
Two Beers: A bit wobbly. It feels as though there is a delicate shroud placed over my perception. I decide not to use any editing from now on. What I type will be left as is. I have a decided thirst for another beer. I know this feeling. So many times I have promised myself that I would practice modration, only to wake up the following morinign with a throbbing headache and no left shoe.
Three Beers: Doesn't take long. I call Ryan and tell him I want to go out. He seems reluctant. I understasnd, we have had some shockers. Some real shockers. There was one time, a weekend; no sleep, at least three bottles of Vodka, a bottle of scothc, a few exctasy pills, ....a line of cocaine? No, maybe that was another nihgt. Anyhoo, the escapade ended with Floyd lying comatose in Sydney Park, then we had to lug the 100kg brute into a taxi, soemthing happened...an argument...I pushed Ryan into a wall for making a derogatory cooment. I broke his nose and wen thone...went home cryoing. Ryan is going to call me back in ten minutes, let me know if he wants to go out...that's him noww...
Four beers: It's decided. Chinese Laundry, midnight. mIt took a bit of convincving on my behalf; Ryan is always platying hard to get. He wants pingers - that's going to be fun. Trying tio find a dalwr , a dealer, in the midest of a swaety cowd of drugged up clubbers. I check my watch. 50 minutes is thr countdown, better get a move on. Y, Tiome to put some mpre beerts in the fridge.
