MY PEN PAL LETTER TO VODKA

Dear Vodka-

Hey, girl. How the fuck are you? Still chilling with those cool cats Cranberry and Soda? Yeah, I bet you are. I’ve been thinking a lot about you over the past 26 days. I won’t take up too much of your time because I know you are super busy getting all dirty with olives in martinis and growing hair on the chests of teenage Russian men worldwide.

I saw you in the subway station today. You didn’t look like your usual self. Instead of the giant gallon sized personality I’m so used to finding in my freezer; you were just a lonely, tiny little pint lying completely empty on the tracks, unable to move as you were repeatedly run over by trains rushing productive members of society to their various obligations and appointments. A cat sized rat (probably named Curtis) walked by you and stopped for a moment to decide if you were worth tasting.  He sniffed, looked around for a moment, and finally passed, moving on to consume a rotten half-eaten bagel instead.  Such rejection must have hurt.

I tried to imagine who you were with before they threw you carelessly to the ground. Maybe it was the homeless man (probably named Jeremiah?) that I always see washing his feet with a torn tshirt and a stolen bottle of isopropyl rubbing alcohol. He might have spent the entire day accumulating nickels and dimes and the occasional dollar bill with the plan to buy a few Big Macs for dinner. He hasn’t eaten for days and was looking forward to some sustenance, no matter how crude or unhealthy. When he finally counted the money, he had exactly four dollars and seventy five cents and as he started towards one of the thirteen McDonald’s within walking distance, his physical hunger vanished and the dragon that was his emotional hunger began rearing its ravenous head, demanding to be fed. He dipped into the liquor store and bought you without a thought. He lumbered down the stairs to wait for a train to sleep on where he would be safe for the night. He quickly consumed you with a few coughs as he felt the burn in his already ravaged throat. He has esophageal cancer and doesn’t know it. You gave him what he needed for the moment and he unceremoniously fed you to the machine of Manhattan.

Or maybe you belonged to a woman named Joan who woke up this morning wondering how she would possibly face the day after the whole bottle of wine she drank which was supplemented by quick shots she took from you last night. You were stashed in her purse which she hid behind the dresser in the bedroom even though no one ever went into her purse to begin with. She sipped a glass of Merlot casually in the living room until it was empty, dismissed herself for a refill, quickly downed an entire glass in the kitchen, and returned with a normal serving size in her glass to continue sipping. Worried that she wasn’t feeling exactly how she wanted to feel, she climbed the stairs to the bedroom and quietly consumed half of you before returning. She took a gulp of wine and swished it around in her mouth hoping that her family would only smell the red and not your paint thinner-like odor. She later drank the other half of you while her husband brushed his teeth. She sat on the side of the bed and ate a mint in case he came too close before she had the chance to rush to the bathroom to brush her teeth and swish her mouth with Listerine. Still paranoid he would smell you, she applied cucumber melon scented lotion to her hands and applied a face mask so he wouldn’t want a kiss. So he wouldn’t want her love. She drifted off to sleep and woke up a few hours later with the mask still on. Panicked and disoriented, she went to the restroom and washed it off before returning to bed where she slept fitfully and anxiously until it was time to rise, dress her children for school, and head into the city for work. As she exited the train, she waited until she was alone and for the people to disperse. As the train pulled away, she quickly opened her purse, pulled you out, threw you onto the tracks, and rushed to work where she would spend the entire day trying desperately to recover before finally feeling human again around 4PM when plans to meet up with you once more would begin swirling in her mind.

Maybe you belonged to someone exactly like me 26 days ago before taking my last sip. Maybe today was the last time that person will ever see you again and in 26 more days, THEY will have 26 days and I will have 52. And even though you don’t belong to either one of us anymore, you will still belong to someone who doesn’t need you and that makes me really angry.

Anyway. I just wanted to say hi. I probably shouldn’t be talking to you and I try really hard not to think about you but you’re everywhere I look and I’m reminded of you in almost everything I do. I really wish we could still be friends but we both know that would never work. It’s all or nothing with us. Please enjoy your life with those who know how to handle your crazy and wild personality. And please take it easy on those who don’t.

Also, stay out of my spaghetti sauce. I just saw you mentioned in a Bertolli commercial as an additive to  a creamy orange-ish colored marinara called Vodka Sauce and I think that’s really fucked up of you.

K bye.

-Me

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8 comments

  1. Hell, I feel so guilty that we can’t be friends anymore, like the liquor will be dejected or something. I am Joan. Only it was rum in the cupboard. Pleased to make your acquaintance sir x

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