He watched his terrible, terrible bourbon decrease. He followed its progress with that of the waning calendar. No new nectar could be afforded until December had left him to January's embrace. Another three ounces, another day. When he slowed down his indulgence time itself slowed down, a tortured dream, a Dantean foil.
It was really nothing short of pathetic, seeing that a bottle of god-forsaken OLD HEAVEN HILL only costs $9.99 (well, and your soul and your sense of taste).
No comments:
Post a Comment