Hey there, pint of Canadian Club. Do you remember me? I remember you. Sort of.
New Year's Eve, 1986. I was fifteen and sporting my first mohawk at Jason Buxton's party. I bought you for five bucks from Brian G. (yes, that one) and decided, after a couple of drinks, that you and me were were good friends. I took you outside in the cold to share a smoke, where I downed most of the rest of you. Then I went back in and sat down, glad to have met you.
I have no idea why, but suddenly I was lying in the back of a pickup truck, vomiting a lot. I didn't like you so much anymore. When the countdown to the new year started, I was hunched over a laundry sink in the basement, dry heaving my way into the latter half of the eighties. Why'd you leave me that way, pint of Canadian Club whiskey?