NEEDLING

The stuff just drinks itself. It’s like it barely passes the stage of having to be drank, inhaled... liquid ingurgitation. No such physical impurities around this house. We’re like... immaculate... Through this orifice you were born, but through this orifice no other organ had to enter to plant your seed. My soul is sealed and precious. I drink this elixir, but I feel as if maybe I am merely breathing the earth before Man crapped on it. The garden of Eden is to be found somewhere around here... (I just don't have the correct address or something...)

And... to get back down to Earth... as in: this Earth, this one bit of polluted scrap trash pile of jitterbug throwaways I live on... we live on... I’d like to say this is only my first analysis and that in the future, though the whisky taken down my gullet might be much pricier than this one here I’m currently enjoying, I might not get so fucking poetic about the whole goddamned procedure. Single malts demand both poetics and harsh realities thrown in your face. That’s right, a bright future and a bucket of life that feels like a fresh catch of dead sardines dumped on your head. That’s what I love about this drink. You shouldn’t believe a word I write here, if you’re to read them literally. First of all, my grammar is ostensibly repulsive. Second of all, I’m full of myself. Third of all, I’m drunk. Fourth off all, I don’t give a flying monkey’s fart. And fifth of all, I’m only capable of enjoying the moment for what it is in today’s context. So fuck it... it’s either all a lie, a complete fable, or a misunderstood mistake...

But just remember: You don’t drink the stuff, you chew it. And that don’t apply to only this particular single malt I’m drinking now. It applies to probably most of them. And that’s what I’m aiming to figure out in the months to come.

Thank you.