Tonight, The Boy took me out to Texas Roadhouse (he’d gotten a gift certificate for referring his brother to the same car dealership where he’d gotten his truck), where I drank a frozen Sauza margarita as big as my head, got hammered, and then wandered around Wal-Mart for about an hour, admiring the Christmas Creep.
The reason why I ordered tequila, even though I haven’t been drinking since Chicago, is because I’ve got a wisdom tooth cutting in like a motherfucker. The only remedies are either rubbing whiskey on my gums (which actually helps), getting fucking blitzed and not feeling it, or throwing myself off the nearest cliff.
Did you know that the leading cause of suicide in the Old West was due to tooth pain?
