Heat
◊ It's easily 85 or 90 million degrees out today. I wouldn't call it a dry heat; the humidity's low, but this kind of weather makes me want to drink beer until my guts are floating in my abdomen, insulated from the heat by gallons of cold, fizzy ale.
Yup, it's drinkin' weather. Not that there's any weather that wasn't meant for drinking: White Russians and Bailey's in winter; in summer, the vodka and tonic that Owen got me hooked on; and beer ... well, beer all year 'round.
I'm a cheap date today, too. My allergies are going berserk so I've been going through Benadryl like a rest home goes through diapers, and the interaction with alcohol means a single beer gets me all pleasantly buzzed. I should probably stay away from the other two in the fridge, or before I know it I'll be ... uh ... doing whatever it is that gets me in trouble when I'm drunk. Picking fights? Having casual sex? Stumbling?
Mmm, casual sex. Maybe I'll hit the fridge, after all.