Vodka Shots Quotes

They're professionals at this in Russia, so no matter how many Jell-O shots or Jager shooters you might have downed at college mixers, no matter how good a drinker you might think you are, don't forget that the Russians - any Russian - can drink you under the table.

There is nothing in the world that a couple of shots of vodka can’t cure

Until he met the most devastatingly gorgeous peasant boy from a nearby village who said absolutely ghastly things to him that made him feel alive for the first time in years and who turned out to be the most mad sort of sorcerer, one who could conjure up things like gold and vodka shots and apricot tarts out of absolutely nothing, and the prince’s whole life went up in a puff of dazzling purple smoke, and the kingdom said, “I can’t believe we’re all so surprised.

The inside is packed with people. Lots of them crowding the bar, passing drinks back for people to carry to tables. A bunch of guys are pouring shots of vodka. "To Zacharov!" one toasts. "To open hearts and open bars!" calls another. "And open legs," says Anton.

The classic caricature of a Russian knocking back shot after shot of vodka is not a misrepresentation.

It felt like swallowing an eight ball of speed and washing it down with a dozen shots of vodka. Hot

V? Answer the question or so help me God I'll beat it out of you." "I just know how to find him." "What are you hiding?" V went over to the bar, poured himself a couple of fingers of Grey Goose, and hammered the shot. He swallowed a number of times and then let the words fly. "I fed him." A chorus of inhales floated a...round the room. As Wrath rose in disbelief, V poured himself another hit of Goose. "You did what?" The last word was bellowed. "I had him drink some of me." "Vishous..." Wrath stalked around the desk, shitkickers hitting the floor like boulders. The king got face-to-face close. "He's a male. He's human. What the fuck were you thinking?" More vodka. Definitely time for more Goose.

He stopped at the door and turned to me. “I’ll be right back.” I nodded, and he disappeared out the door. I stood in my living area in my heels, skirt and blouse from work. Then I wondered if I had time to change before he got back. Then I wondered if he’d notice it if I’d spritzed on perfume when he got back. Then I wondered if I should do a shot or two of vodka before he got back. Then he knocked on my door, which meant he was back.

I relied on alcohol only on the days of these excursions—a shot of vodka before I went out and walked past all the little bistros and cafes and shops I’d frequented when I was out there, pretending to live a life.

Often on the menu, oysters will be listed as “oysters on the half shell.” As opposed to what? “In a Kleenex?” Even the way you are supposed to eat an oyster indicates something counterintuitive. “Squeeze some lemon on it, a dab of hot sauce, throw the oyster down the back of your throat, take a shot of vodka, and try to forget you just ate snot from a rock.” That is not how you eat something. That is how you overdose on sleeping pills.

Like That" Love me like a wrong turn on a bad road late at night, with no moon and no town anywhere and a large hungry animal moving heavily through the brush in the ditch. Love me with a blindfold over your eyes and the sound of rusty water blurting from the faucet in the kitchen, leaking down through the floorboards to hot cement. Do it without asking, without wondering or thinking anything, while the machinery’s shut down and the watchman’s slumped asleep before his small TV showing the empty garage, the deserted hallways, while the thieves slice through the fence with steel clippers. Love me when you can’t find a decent restaurant open anywhere, when you’re alone in a glaring diner with two nuns arguing in the back booth, when your eggs are greasy and your hash browns underdone. Snick the buttons off the front of my dress and toss them one by one into the pond where carp lurk just beneath the surface, their cold fins waving. Love me on the hood of a truck no one’s driven in years, sunk to its fenders in weeds and dead sunflowers; and in the lilies, your mouth on my white throat, while turtles drag their bellies through slick mud, through the footprints of coots and ducks. Do it when no one’s looking, when the riots begin and the planes open up, when the bus leaps the curb and the driver hits the brakes and the pedal sinks to the floor, while someone hurls a plate against the wall and picks up another, love me like a freezing shot of vodka, like pure agave, love me when you’re lonely, when we’re both too tired to speak, when you don’t believe in anything, listen, there isn’t anything, it doesn’t matter; lie down with me and close your eyes, the road curves here, I’m cranking up the radio and we’re going, we won’t turn back as long as you love me, as long as you keep on doing it exactly like that.

Oh I bet you’re sweet as under all that posh.’ And he looked at her in a way that left her in no doubt that he wasn’t talking about the way she might move on the dance floor. If he mentioned honey pots she was going to pour her vodka shot over him. ‘You’ll never know,

I know you are.” And he kissed her softly. “But, there’s another thing. Olga, you can’t be washing money for these Russian cats. It’s all blinis and vodka shots until you end up dead in Little Odessa, and I love you too much to risk that happening. If you need money until you figure out what you want to do next, please let me help you.

when life gives you lemons... ask for a shot glass and a bottle of vodka, because this is gonna be a long day.

There is something exciting about this. Peter still doesn't want to have sex with Mizzy, but there is something thrilling about downing a shot of vodka with another man who happens to be naked. There's the covert brotherliness of it, a locker-room aspect, the low, masculine, eroticized love-hum that's not so much about the flesh as it is about the commonality. You, Peter, as devoted as you are to your wife, as completely as you understand her very real worries on Mizzy's behalf, also understand Mizzy's desire to make his own way, to avoid that maelstrom of womanly ardor, that distinctly feminine sense that you will be healed, whether you want to be or not. Men are united in their commonness, maybe it's as simple as that.

Darth Maultini, please.” They stopped and stared. “A what?” He shot them a suffering expression. “One ounce sweet vermouth, one ounce vodka, one ounce whiskey, two ounces pomegranate cherry, and two lemon wedges cut up and spread around the glass.

Look, barkeeper, I'm a peaceful man. Fairly normal. I don't sniff armpits or wear ladies' underwear. But everywhere I go, somebody is pushing shots at me, they give me no rest. Why is this? -I think you got it comin' somehow. -Well, Eddie, you stop thinking and see if you can fix me a double vodka and tonic, touch of lime. -We don't got no lime. -Yeah, you have. I can see it from here. -That lime's not for you -Yeah? Who's it for? Elizabeth Taylor? Now, if you want to sleep in your own bed tonight, I'll have that lime. In my drink. Pronto.

What the . . . Look, Panas, the moon’s gone.” “So it is,” kum agreed phlegmatically. “Right, and you just accept it, like that’s the way it should be?” “Well, what else can I do about it?” “What devil has done this to the moon, I want to know? May he never have a shot of vodka in the morning,

Heroin has a frightening reputation, and rightly so: the margin between an effective dose and an overdose is narrower than that of any other mainstream narcotic. A paper in Addiction, an academic journal, estimated the quantity of various drugs needed to get an average person high versus the amount required to kill them.5 In the case of alcohol, it found that the ratio was about ten to one—in other words, if a couple of shots of vodka are enough to make you tipsy, twenty shots might kill you, if you can keep them down. Cocaine, it found, was slightly safer, with a ratio of fifteen to one. LSD has a ratio of 1,000 to one, whereas marijuana is safest of all: it is impossible to die of overdose, as far as anyone can tell. Even with the edibles, there is no evidence that one can die of overdose—you simply have a stronger and longer-lasting effect than you may have wanted. For heroin, the ratio between an effective dose and a deadly one is just six to one. Given that batches vary dramatically in their purity, each shot is a game of Russian roulette. Dealers

Sucks what happened with that Henry guy, though,” she continued. “I mean, I’m sad for both of you, all that unrequited love for years. It’s like one of those messed up art house movies that you think is going to be this epic love story but ends with no one getting what they wanted and makes you want to go straight to the bar after the movie and down a dozen shots of vodka to forget you saw that shit.

Rumours about Finnish beer prices are a little exaggerated, and there’s a big social drinking scene that’s great to take part in, particularly in student-filled Turku. Finns lose that famous reserve after a tuoppi (half-litre glass) or three of beer and are keen to chat to visitors; it’s a great way to meet locals. Finland's cities are full of original and offbeat bars and you’ll soon find a favourite Suomi tipple, whether Finnish ciders, microbrewed beers, sweet-and-sour combinations, or unusual shots such as salty liquorice vodka or cloudberry liqueur.

When I needed more pills, I ventured out to the Rite Aid three blocks away. That was always a painful passage. Walking up First Avenue, everything made me cringe. I was like a baby being born—the air hurt, the light hurt, the details of the world seemed garish and hostile. I relied on alcohol only on the days of these excursions—a shot of vodka before I went out and walked past all the little bistros and cafes and shops I’d frequented when I was out there, pretending to live a life. Otherwise I tried to limit myself to a one-block radius around my apartment.

There are food stations around the room, each representing one of the main characters. The Black Widow station is all Russian themed, with a carved ice sculpture that delivers vodka into molded ice shot glasses, buckwheat blini with smoked salmon and caviar, borsht bite skewers, minipita sandwiches filled with grilled Russian sausages, onion salad, and a sour cream sauce. The Captain America station is, naturally, all-American, with cheeseburger sliders, miniwaffles topped with a fried chicken tender and drizzled with Tabasco honey butter, paper cones of French fries, mini-Chicago hot dogs, a mac 'n' cheese bar, and pickled watermelon skewers. The Hulk station is all about duality and green. Green and white tortellini, one filled with cheese, the other with spicy sausage, skewered with artichoke hearts with a brilliant green pesto for dipping. Flatbreads cooked with olive oil and herbs and Parmesan, topped with an arugula salad in a lemon vinaigrette. Mini-espresso cups filled with hot sweet pea soup topped with cold sour cream and chervil. And the dessert buffet is inspired by Loki, the villain of the piece, and Norse god of mischief. There are plenty of dessert options, many of the usual suspects, mini-creme brûlée, eight different cookies, small tarts. But here and there are mischievous and whimsical touches. Rice Krispies treats sprinkled with Pop Rocks for a shocking dining experience. One-bite brownies that have a molten chocolate center that explodes in the mouth. Rice pudding "sushi" topped with Swedish Fish.

Okay, try this, ma’am,” Januscheitis said, setting down a shot glass with a clear liquid in it. “What is this?” Faith said. She sniffed it and her nose wrinkled. “Seriously? A Marine has to drink?” “Not has to, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Just interested. And it’s chilled vodka. Try it.” Faith tossed back the drink as the assembled group watched with sneaky smiles. “Okay, that’s not bad,” Faith said, shrugging. “No reaction at all?” Paula said, looking shocked. “No coughing? No choking?” “Was there supposed to be one?” Faith asked. She picked up the bottle, poured another shot and tossed it back. “There, happy?” “Try this one… ” Sophia said, carefully, sliding across a shot of dark liquor. “Ick,” Faith said. “That’s not so good. What was it?” “Twenty-five-year-old Strathsclyde,” Sophia said. “Which is?” Faith asked. “Scotch, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Good scotch.” “Tastes like piss,” Faith said. “Not that I’ve ever drunk piss. Okay, what else you got?” Thirty minutes later there were a dozen bottles on the table and Faith had had at least one shot from each. “Okay, rum’s pretty good,” she said, smacking her lips. “Not as good as Razzleberry tea but not bad.” “She’s not even slightly drunk?” Derek slurred. He was, for sure. “Isn’t it supposed to be doing something by now?” Faith asked, taking another shot of 151. “I mean, I’d just finished seventh grade,” Faith said. “I’ve been to, like, two school dances! I’m never going to get to go to prom… ” She took another drink and frowned. “That sucks. That’s one of the reasons I hate fucking zombies. I’m never going to get to go to prom.” “Marine corps ball, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. He’d stopped drinking when the LT started to get shit-faced. Which had taken enough straight booze to drown a Force Recon platoon. “Way better than prom.” “Really?” Faith said. “Really,” Derek said. “Marine Corps ball is like prom for Marines.” “Christ, it’s coming up, isn’t it?” Januscheitis said. “Time’s sort of gotten to be one of those things you forget.” “We gonna have one?” Derek said. “Bet you,” Januscheitis said. “Gunny will insist. Probably use the Alpha or the Money.” “That’d be cool,” Derek said, grinning. “Use the Alpha. Marine Corps ball on a megayacht captured from zombies? I can dig that. Besides it’s more trashed out. You know how ball gets… ” “Semper fucking Fi,” Faith said. “I get to go to prom.” “We’ll make sure of it, ma’am,” Januscheitis said. “Great!” Faith slurred. “So why do I gotta puke?

To wit, researchers recruited a large group of college students for a seven-day study. The participants were assigned to one of three experimental conditions. On day 1, all the participants learned a novel, artificial grammar, rather like learning a new computer coding language or a new form of algebra. It was just the type of memory task that REM sleep is known to promote. Everyone learned the new material to a high degree of proficiency on that first day—around 90 percent accuracy. Then, a week later, the participants were tested to see how much of that information had been solidified by the six nights of intervening sleep. What distinguished the three groups was the type of sleep they had. In the first group—the control condition—participants were allowed to sleep naturally and fully for all intervening nights. In the second group, the experimenters got the students a little drunk just before bed on the first night after daytime learning. They loaded up the participants with two to three shots of vodka mixed with orange juice, standardizing the specific blood alcohol amount on the basis of gender and body weight. In the third group, they allowed the participants to sleep naturally on the first and even the second night after learning, and then got them similarly drunk before bed on night 3. Note that all three groups learned the material on day 1 while sober, and were tested while sober on day 7. This way, any difference in memory among the three groups could not be explained by the direct effects of alcohol on memory formation or later recall, but must be due to the disruption of the memory facilitation that occurred in between. On day 7, participants in the control condition remembered everything they had originally learned, even showing an enhancement of abstraction and retention of knowledge relative to initial levels of learning, just as we’d expect from good sleep. In contrast, those who had their sleep laced with alcohol on the first night after learning suffered what can conservatively be described as partial amnesia seven days later, forgetting more than 50 percent of all that original knowledge. This fits well with evidence we discussed earlier: that of the brain’s non-negotiable requirement for sleep the first night after learning for the purposes of memory processing. The real surprise came in the results of the third group of participants. Despite getting two full nights of natural sleep after initial learning, having their sleep doused with alcohol on the third night still resulted in almost the same degree of amnesia—40 percent of the knowledge they had worked so hard to establish on day 1 was forgotten.

If you are approaching graduation or have recently finished school, I hope this memoir gives you a little pause and some reassurance—no decision you make now will lock you into sixty years of anything. Take your time. Explore your options. Possibly trace your roots to help create a foundation for your own story. Experience the world responsibly, but don’t be afraid to take a few risks. Talk and learn from others. Then, dip your toe in the water. Eventually, you’ll find your way.

You know, destroying personal property is very thirsty work. I might need a shot of vodka to go with this.

WE BETTER WATCH OUT FOR STORMY WEATHER IN THE FORCAST! GOD IS UNPREDICTABLE! SUGGESTION HAVE A LITTE SHOT OF VODKA ! THAT WILL START YOU UP! WALK LIKE AN EGYPTION!

As if I could forget it. I’m pretty sure Aunt Bibi taught the rhyme to me as a jump rope song when I was little. “Don’t worry,” my aunt said with a supportive hand over mine. “I’m the bad influence your father can’t fire.” Donny arrived with four clear shots on a tray. After handing us each one, he said, “To my three favorite ladies.” We raised our glasses and upended the shots. The vodka burned its

Taking two shots of vodka

When I’m not looking, she grabs the old shot off the table and downs it. Damn it. “Bridget,” I scold under my breath. “Food waste is a serious problem. There are sober Russians in Russia who would love that vodka!” Pretty sure it was tequila.

He steered us across the ballroom and through a door that led into a low-lit room which I could only describe as a smoking room. Do people really still have those? Apparently they did because a bunch of cigar stubs sat in a golden ashtray on the nearest table and the thick scent of tobacco hung in the air. Blood red armchairs sat around the space and to the right of them stood Darius beside a large oak writing desk. A row of shots were laid out across it in front of a bottle of vodka and my heart pumped harder as Max released me, his gifts fizzling out of my system. Darius picked up a shot and knocked it back, releasing a satisfied ah after he swallowed it. He grabbed two more, holding them out for Tory and I but neither of us moved. “I think I'll get my drinks from a less shady room thanks,” I said, shaking my head. “Yeah, I'm gonna decline the date rape.” Tory smiled hollowly and Darius scoffed. “As if I'd need to drug you to get you in my bed,” Darius smirked. “Keep dreaming, Dragon boy.” She planted a hand on her hip and I grinned. We turned to leave and found Seth and Caleb stepping into the room. My heart juddered as they prowled forward, blocking our way out. “Evening,” Caleb said, skirting around us, his eyes lingering on Tory. Seth scratched behind his ear and I bit my lip to stop myself from laughing. “Gimme one of those.” He moved around us, scratching more vigorously as he grabbed a shot from the desk. He swallowed one then another before pawing at the back of his shirt and scratching his head again. “What's up with you, man?” Max frowned as Seth started raking under his arm. “Nothing,” he spat, then let out a whine as he scratched himself too hard. I almost lost it when Tory hiccoughed a laugh. “Almost seems like you've got fleas,” Darius said with a teasing smirk and Seth growled deeply. “I do not have fleas,” he snarled and I couldn't help the laugh that finally tore free from my throat. He turned, eyes sharpening to slits, but he said nothing. (Darcy)

She feels a sense of unease pass through her as she sees Giovanni head to the cocktail cabinet for a second bottle of vodka, the careless, loose-wristed glugging into guests’ glasses, the glaze across Nathan’s eyes, the loudness of him, the babble of bullshit, the overloud laugh, and she knows already that this will be one of those nights and she doesn’t want to be that wife, the purse-lipped, stick-up-the-butt wife, the wife who can’t relax and can’t have fun and spoils it for everyone else. She wants to down tequila shots and sing and dance and laugh like a drain. But she can’t take on that role because Nathan has already staked his claim on it and one of them has to remain sentient and together; one of them has to be the grown-up.

General, but heartily evaluated by me, Surgeon Particular. I rarely discriminate my alcohol, but today I decide to stick to generation-proved staples of comfort and problem solving: vodka and whiskey. Starting in reverse alphabetical order I take a shot of cinnamon whiskey, which sails down smoother than Titanic, traces of familiar warmth reminiscent in my stomach for a minute straight, tongue pleasantly on fire. Next comes a complimentary and mandatory apple martini (Friday night’s special for ladies), provided

Flight attendant Sherly needs Prosac, Valium, and a shot of vodka after just thinking about working the trip.

Squeeze some lemon on it, a dab of hot sauce, throw the oyster down the back of your throat, take a shot of vodka, and try to forget you just ate snot from a rock.

Do you have vodka?” “Vodka?” “Yes. All good conversations start with a shot of vodka.” “Not where I’m from. All good conversations start with ‘Y’all aren’t going to believe this’.

         Two days later, the Soviets had left and the Germans had not yet come in - the town was in no-man's-land. Nobody dared step out of the house for fear of looters, bandits, drunkards. In fact, before the Russians abandoned the town, they emptied the liquor stores and cosmetic stores in search for alcohol. Whoever was not lucky enough to find vodka, took denatured alcohol or eau de cologne; they drank anything. Many drunken soldiers lay in the streets and in the gutters and were taken prisoners, while drunk; some were shot on the spot. Some war record for glorious red soldiers.

stretches, save for the very occasional twinkling lights from a village or small town. I always imagine how hard it must have been walking on foot during the prehistoric period across this vast and desolate space. After reaching Novosibirsk we drive for five or six hours across the flat steppe of southern Siberia, through miles of wheat and sunflower fields in the summer, before the topography changes and low hills come into view. The roads become rougher and more shingly, potholes appear, and the path is occasionally washed out completely by a river. Just as the bouncing and lurching of the four-wheel drive becomes intolerable, and after some eleven hours’ travelling in total, the base camp of the Denisova team finally appears and it’s time to see old friends, settle in, unpack and relax, usually over a few shots of vodka and an amiable dinner. The first time I ate with my Russian colleagues, I had to explain to Professor Michael Shunkov, co-director of the excavations at Denisova, that I was a vegetarian. When his translator conveyed my message Michael immediately replied, in perfect Russian-English, ‘You will not survive in Siberia!’ Meat is indeed usually on the menu, but Russian hospitality means that I have never gone hungry yet.

Unless you are in the hospital you are expected to come to all family activities. However, if you are in the hospital, the dinner will be brought to you, because you cannot possibly eat hospital food, my goodness no. It will kill you. Russian food will build your strength up again, and here is a small shot of vodka.

Some days, I need to mentally prepare myself to deal with them. Other days, the only preparation that helps is a shot of vodka in my morning coffee.

For the past three months, she'd been sticking rigorously to her diet. She ate an apple and a spoonful of peanut butter for breakfast, a salad with grilled chicken breast for lunch, and a Lean Cuisine for dinner. At work, she avoided the carb-heavy staff meals. One of the sous-chefs was always happy to roast her some chicken breast or salmon. She'd chew spearmint gum while she cooked, and allow herself just a taste of even her favorite dishes. At bedtime, after her mom had gone to bed, she would sneak into the kitchen to slug down a shot of the vodka that she kept in the freezer, with a squeeze of fresh lime. Without that final step, she faced a night lying in bed, listening to her mom snuffling and sighing and sometimes weeping through the thin bedroom door, tormented by thoughts of everything she wanted to eat, when she started eating again: brownies with caramel swirled on top, and a sprinkling of flaky sea salt on top of that. Spicy chicken wings; garlic with pea shoots; spicy tofu in sesame honey sauce, curried goat- from the Jamaican place she'd discovered- over rice cooked with saffron. Vanilla custard in a cake cone, topped with a shower of rainbow sprinkles; eclairs; sugar cookies dusted with green and red; and hot chocolate drunk in front of a fire.

Why him? Why not the others, you want to know? Well then, forget for a while you have glasses on your nose and autumn in your heart. Forget that you pick fights from behind your desk and stutter when you are out in the world! Imagine for a moment that you pick fights in town squares and stutter only among papers. You are a tiger, you are a lion, you are a cat. You can spend the night with a Russian woman, and the Russian woman will be satisfied with you. You are twenty-five years old. If the sky and the earth had rings attached to them, you would grab these rings and pull the sky down to the earth. And your papa is the carter Mendel Krik. What does a papa like him think about? All he thinks about is downing a nice shot of vodka, slugging someone in their ugly mug, and about his horses - nothing else. You want to live, but he makes you die twenty times a day. What would you have done if you were in Benya Krik's shoes?

JOE HATED DENVER TRAFFIC and he kept both of his hands on the wheel and his pickup in the far right lane as cars zipped around him. It was as if every driver on the five-lane freeway had just downed three shots of vodka and had been handed the keys to Daddy’s sports car.

What are those?" Ryker asked. On the table were three large shot glasses, filled with vodka and topped with a spurt of whipped cream and sprinkles. "Pancakes." I took one of the glasses, ready to knock it back. "Dani, those are not pancakes," Ryker said, leaning forward to smell them. "That is vodka." "Potato pancakes," I said, and I knocked mine back. "Don't judge a family tradition, it's a long story and you can't tell me I don't need a shot or three after what I went through." He didn't looked impressed. "You drink as much as Gavin.

it was the vodka combined with your eyes that gave me your love in a shot glass. i drank all of you and wanted more. the vodka killed me the cigarettes destroyed me, but your love it fucking created me.

and the old man himself was so cheap, his one piece of technology was an ancient radio that only seemed to pick up a religious station. “You brought some books, didn’t you? Or you can muck out the stable. Or climb up the hill.” He pointed with his chin toward the hills. “Nice views up there.” “I saw a coyote up the hill.” “Coyote’s harmless. Mostly. Old brother coyote’s too smart to go messing with humans.” He pronounced coyote “kie-oat.” “I’ve been stuck here a week,” Lana said. “Isn’t that long enough? How long am I supposed to stay here? I want to go home.” The old man didn’t even glance at her. “Your dad caught you sneaking vodka out of the house for some punk.” “Tony is not a punk,” Lana shot back.

She gave me shots of vodka to make me sleep when I was ten.

I can’t explain why, but a whiskey sour is a drink for a man whose mother made him practice piano a lot when he was a kid. A man who drinks whiskey sours also probably throws a baseball like a girl—limp wristed. A man who drinks whiskey sours and then eats that silly little cherry they put in the bottom probably has a cat or a poodle for a pet. In other words, I wouldn’t go on a camping trip with a man who drinks whiskey sours. Scotch drinkers are aggressive. They order like they’re Charles Bronson trying to have a quick shot before returning to the subway to kill a few punks and thugs. “What’ll you have, sir?” asks the bartender. “Cutty. Water. Rocks. Twist,” growls the Scotch drinker. I think maybe Scotch drinkers wear their underwear too tight. You have to watch people who drink vodka or gin. “Anybody who drinks see-through whiskey,” an old philosopher once said, “will get crazy.” Indeed. Vodka and gin drinkers are the type who leave the house to get a loaf of bread, drop by the bar for just one, and return home six weeks later. With the bread. I wouldn’t go on a camping trip with anyone who drinks vodka or gin, either. They’re the types who would invite snakes, raccoons and bears over for cocktails and then wind up getting into an argument about tree frogs. Bourbon drinkers never grow up. Eight out of ten started drinking bourbon with Coke in school and still have a pair of saddle oxfords in the closet. Bourbon drinkers don’t think they’ve had a good time unless they get sick and pass out under a coffee table. Then there are the white wine drinkers. Never get involved in any way with them. They either want to get married, sell you a piece of real estate or redecorate your house.

You and I Are Disappearing - 1947- —Bjöm Håkansson The cry I bring down from the hills belongs to a girl still burning inside my head. At daybreak she burns like a piece of paper. She burns like foxfire in a thigh-shaped valley. A skirt of flames dances around her at dusk. We stand with our hands hanging at our sides, while she burns like a sack of dry ice. She burns like oil on water. She burns like a cattail torch dipped in gasoline. She glows like the fat tip of a banker's cigar, silent as quicksilver. A tiger under a rainbow at nightfall. She burns like a shot glass of vodka. She burns like a field of poppies at the edge of a rain forest. She rises like dragonsmoke to my nostrils. She burns like a burning bush driven by a godawful wind.

As she pulled the freezer door open to get more ice, something fell from the top of the refrigerator and landed on Deanna’s head. She touched her hair and was horrified to discover something was stuck in it! Deanna screamed and tore at her hair. Along with a hank of blonde locks, she yanked out a black, palm-sized spider. “Aargh!” Deanna yelled, flinging it away. The spider bounced against the refrigerator door and fell to the ground. It was a rubber tarantula. Deanna growled, then nearly came to tears. Hiding spiders around the house had been a favorite prank of her mother’s. She’d done it as long as Deanna could remember. And now, even from the grave, Melody had gotten her once again. “Good one, Mom,” Deanna hissed, and stomped the spider. She kicked it under the refrigerator and grabbed a handful of ice. She poured herself a double shot of vodka, drank it down, and poured herself another. She raised a toast to her mother’s ghost. “Cheers, Melody.

You’d better. If you make my daughter fall in love with you and then you leave her behind, I will find you and smother you in your sleep.” I chuckled. Not many people challenged me. I liked that Thea didn’t back down. She met me with full force when we were fighting and when we’d had sex. I loved that she was especially scrappy when it came to our daughter. “I think you’d better hand over that vodka. You’re getting violent.” She answered by grabbing the bottle and gulping down another shot. “You should see me when I drink bourbon. The last time I had Jim Beam, I decided to trim the shrubs along the sidewalk out front.” “What shrubs?” “Exactly.