by Tim G. Young

The last sip of my dry (very dry and dirty) gin martini tasted like a crude motor oil. Up until that point it was a regular kind of tasting gin but the endgame was shit.. 

The end of the gin game had finally arrived. There were cold beers in the fridge ready to have the sweat removed from their tinny skin. I was never caught up in the skinny thin sex of the thing but those three substantial letters passed through my cerebral cortex fast as a night train express.

Over at the stereo the headphones led my ears to bleed and my feet to dance to "Cake" by the B-52's. The two girl singers discussed the delights of devil's food cake as they ate it. The unstoppable beat driven into my head and greased like the motor oil in my gin martini, kept my body from standing still, while my arms and hands blow like a hurricane.

But I'm not blown away. I only shiver and shake. Inside I learn the rules of how much to take. I love taking. Not so much giving when I can have more if I keep to myself. Keeping to myself is what keeps me going. And I'm always going but who knows where the fuck that is? If I bothered to care about any of that crap I'd be in worse trouble than I am now. And you must know how trouble is an old friend of mine. Well maybe not so much a friend but something that simply refuses to let me go, like my gin.