The weather turns a little more chilly, which gets me frisky. My friskiness leads me to think that my liver’s not perpetually on crutches and that it’s totally acceptable for me to go lounge at any ol’ bar somewhere on a random Wednesday and get absolutely whiskey soaked by warm candle light. Then go eat something large, fatty, and fried. Like a whole pig, wrapped in mesh-weave of crispy bacon. After all the poison and that cornucopia of death, I usually stagger back out into the cold night air, lost and confused, with all my booze-soaked blood rushing to my stomach to get that mess processed and OUT. Then I walk home. Sometimes for miles. Sometimes it takes hours. more ›