That’s probably not what they meant…

Oh, trust — my mother inspires nearly ALL my gin consumption. #ginspiration

Orphan Blackout

Adele: “So I’m reading this wrong?”
Felix: “Well, you did just mix mood stabilizers with gin, darling.”
Adele: “That’s brunch.”
— Orphan Black

That time I damned myself to hell before noon.

I asked my mother what I could bring to Christmas dinner, maybe a dessert or wine, and she said, “No worries, we’re all set for food, and we have enough to drink — there’s water and soda and juice.”

Oh. Oh, honey. Is it GIN and juice? Is there grape drank? (That’s what those Sunny D commercials meant by “purple stuff,” let’s be honest.)

See, I can’t get through Christmas with that big fake smile on my face without mixing pills and alcohol, Karen Walker style. Besides, if you read The Bible, you’ll learn Jesus turned water into wine because He WANTED us to be half in the bag on His birthday.

Jesus was a partier. Fact. He didn’t go all in with hats and streamers and all that, because that’s just excess, but He could knock back goblets of His own blood like nobody’s business.

This holiday season, give the gift of kissing my ass.

During holiday seasons I love to torture myself by looking at those bullshit “for her” and “for him” gift recommendation lists.

For instance, BN.com recommends “for him” all this sweet Star Wars and Doctor Who stuff, Rodin “Thinker” bookends, and cool beer/gin kits. And “for her,” a bunch of fucking candles and tote bags and tea sets, and what looks like every pink gift item they sell.

Kiss my dick, Barnes & Noble.

I will admit, I love candles and pink stuff. But I also like beer and gin, dammit, and I do, um, THINK, at least often enough to enjoy “Thinker” bookends. Plus I know tons of ladies who’d enjoy Star Wars/Doctor Who swag. Hmph.

Mad props to LivingSocial, though. Their “for her” gift guide has bourbon tastings, distillery tours, photography lessons, and race car experience packages. (And Brazilian waxes, but eh, it’s still a good list of options. And, um… I’ll just go ahead and add that wax to my cart along with the bourbon tasting. That’s gonna be a weird day.)

 

Ego trippin’

This may be (i.e., is most definitely) the gin talking, but I feel like we don’t talk enough about how cute I look in jeans.

A perfectly rational response.

I just can’t, with the news.

Fortunately I very much can, with the gin.

“Demure, Deadpan and Smutty”

If you’re not watching these amazing ladies, particularly with a belly full of Indian food, gin, and cupcakes, you’re missing out.

Demure, Deadpan and Smutty, an Offshoot of Girl Power

My friends discriminate!

Have developed two social media crushes in one evening.

You people have been holding out on me with your hot friends, what the hell? Is it because I’m insane? Whatever, man, send me That Guy — we’ll be bored of each other in a month, so he won’t have to deal with anything except my overwhelming need to lick his tattoos.

(Ahem. I may be drunk blogging.)