“Write drunk, edit sober,” the famously misquoted words of Ernest Hemingway, are put to the test as Olivia Maher embarks on an alcohol-inspired writing journey. Detailing what she’s sipping on and why you should too, who knows where else this one-sided conversation will go.
Liv Sips : Why DID the chicken cross the road?
Moscow Mules. Drink of the evening people. DRINK OF THE EVENing.
I’m trying as hard as possible NOT to be a cliche here, but I do feel like a basic b*tch. But I won’t lie to you…I HAVE been drinking. Isn’t that why you're here though?
I feel like my main dude Ernest would've written wonders while under the influence, but I read a few things that said something like Ernest’s granddaughter said he never wrote under the influence…but like…what does someone’s granddaughter know about them? I mean come ON.
So basically, I don’t buy it. And you shouldn't either.
ANYWAY a Moscow mule is composed of lime juice, vodka, and ginger beer.
Ginger beer isn’t alcoholic, as the name would like you to believe….BUT you just gotta make the rest up in vodka.
As I did.
It’s bit of a trend within the drinking culture at the current moment. At least I keep hearing about it and seeing it all over social media. But it’s supposed to be served and drunk in a Copper mug.
Ain’t nobody got time for that. I used a mofoing mason jar like the Pintrest-oriented b*tch that I am. Also, I don't even have proper glasses in my apartment. #college
So anyway, here I am. Alex came and ate a ridiculously hot pepper and I love her for it.
Side Note. It’s Burnett’s in my glass. Burnett’s vodka. All that was in my freezer. Don’t judge. Doesn’t make me any less classy. GO big or go home on the first post.
Ooh. You're probably wondering about the title of this number.
So. I drove from Burlington (my home city) to Castleton before I embarked upon this bloggin/drunken adventure of sorts. AND the car in front of me ran over a beautiful chicken, RIGHT before my eyes. I LOVE chickens. I am so excited to own my own coop one day and eat fresh eggs every morning like the fricken Anne of Green Gables that I am.
Back to the story. This chicken EXPLODED from under this car in a fury of feathers and I just barely had a chance to slam on my brakes.
Pulling my car to the side of the road, and ignoring a death glare from a passing car that thought I myself was responsible for the situation this chicken was in, got out of my car and picked this animal up, cupping it’s wings as I was taught when little, and brought it to the side of the road to a nice patch of grass. I was GOING to give this animal a nice going-out party, dammit.
How’s that? Works for me.