I am convinced that certain types and amounts of alcohol adds up to a gland (scientific name not established), painfully throbbing at the back of my scull. I was reminded this morning that this gland still exists and seems to be functioning very well.
This state of the anatomy usually goes hand in hand with an unearthly thirst. And two dogs that seems to have an urgent need to pee and thus nudging me awake in the middle of the night.
Following a night out with the girls, I find myself in a terribly woozy state. Can one single cocktail served in a flute and one elegant glass Shiraz really have such devastating effects on one single slow-sipping person?
I don’t know.
The cocktail was something unknown to me; something lime-green tasting with mint and sugar at the rim for the sweet-savoring lips. The red wine a mellow one with great character and all the right descriptions a good wine connoisseur would savor: honorable, no tardiness, dark, handsome, crisp, smoky, smooth, polished, plush and robust…
Sounds all the more to me like the type of suburban dude a good girl’s got to watch out for. I’d like to add to this particular Porcupine Shiraz three more notes: Sexy, Mocha that lingers in the mouth and a good long finish.
Well apart from these small observations of taste and appearance, I learned the following between last night 07h30 and this morning:
I’m not a cocktail girl.
I’m not much of a girls-girl night out person
I’m not much of a midweek-out girl
I’m a girl who likes to have fun without worries about how I’m going to cope with poisoned glands and the darn mafia the next day.