|
|
It's my birthday Pubnight and I get to write the e-mail. Since I'm picking a fairly noir-ish place, and I'm currently obsessed with Sin City (books and movie), I'm going to write this one Frank Miller-style. That only means theres not going to be very many verbs.
Birthdays.
My birthday.
27 years of typing and coding and gaming and blood and sweat. I'm thinking of martinis. The big kind that come with the shaker and served colder than the girl who left me for that rich asshole. The bartender, Chris, he made martinis like a chef made steak. Or an artist made paintings. Like a high-class Old Town girl turned tricks.
And when your eyes go bleary, the gin you're drinking will seem like heaven after what he's done to it.
My birthday was 3 weeks ago, but I wasn't gonna let those other PN bastards shaft me out of my birthday Pubnight. I'm picking my kind of place. A place where the lights are so low, you can barely see the drink below you or the dame across the bar. Where they serve Boodles gin.
Daddy O.
We're goin' to Daddy O.
And for the record, that is one damn fine coat you're wearin'.
I check the list:
Ask yourself is that martini worth drinking for?
Worth drinking for.
Worth getting drunk for.
Worth getting hungover for.
Amen.
-- Sawyer