Whiskey, you're the devil

I got drunk again. It was a joyous happening. Friends and wife were there and the liquor refused to stop flowing.

I drank whiskey. I drank gin. I drank beer and began again.

Our party went to an arcade because the mini-golf course was closed. Brian and I shot Terminators with frighteningly realistic plastic assault rifles. He was wildly impressed with my 40% accuracy against the mechanical buggers. I said nothing about his 37%, simply nodded coolly.

We rode small, garishly painted motorcycles bolted in front of video screens. I lost to Brian and Jill and felt fine about it; she was mostly sober and he owns a real-life motorcycle complete with leather jacket. My hands were tied and numb from the Evan Williams.

Skee ball was surprisingly doable while inebriated, especially compared to drunken Dance Dance Revolution. I took my turn on the tiny dance floor, and it was mercifully brief. Then my wife, all pixie hair and flashing eyes, dropped her tokens in the hefty techno-spewing machine. She was (mind, I was watching through hops and love) the most graceful thing I've ever seen. Alecia, I picked through all my swirling thoughts, was no doubt borne of a clan of Irish faeries who taught her to jig and reel in the deep green forests where no man may walk. It was a nice picture I'll not soon forget.

Back at Brian's, we played Murderer and Alecia espoused various philosophical leanings while swearing like an educated, creative sailor. I awoke at 6am on the floor, feeling relaxed.

Sorry, liver.