I must confess, dear reader, that it is becoming quite hard to say something each day about the bourbon I am drinking. They told me it'd happen like this.
Kate and I sit together after work. It's been a decent Thursday, though she has just been ruined by the atrocious tip of a group of Frenchmen.
It's Turkey of course, the bottle of which I imagine is and will be drank mostly by my own doing. I take it neat and drink it quickly. I have other things to do. Damn, it gets to me though. I wander outside, turkeylust having overtaken my better senses. I stick things in tail-pipes and leave little bits of hair on car roofs. Three cats - sad cats! - who happen across my path meet bitter and awkward ends. Brick through window - run! Where am I? Somehow I am driving my car from the passenger's seat. Home, someway. Turkeylust (Putensucht, as a German would say). God help us.
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