Internet service is still out at home, which means I have to fill the hours between midnight and morning with whiskey alone.
(Oh, I kid. I don’t partake of the brown liquor every night. I don’t even drink it more than once or twice a month — at least not since March of last year — especially not after some recent family revelations.
I’ve been told my mother’s father’s father killed a man with a hay hook while drunk in a Texas bar. According to family lore, he went crazy from grief and spent the rest of his life in an asylum. And since Great-Grandpa’s name was Robert Bruce, Scottish as they come, what would he have been drinking but whiskey?
Anyway, I can’t update my site from home, and I feel like the Wicked Witch of the West after Dorothy throws cold water on her. “Ahhhh, you cursed brat! Look what you’ve done! I’m melting! Melting!”
So maybe I’ll make an exception on the whiskey today. I’ll throw back a few shots of Maker’s Mark and then go have a little chat with my Internet service provider. Now where can I find a hay hook in Manhattan?