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I Can No Longer Enjoy Fireball Like A Responsible Adult

I Can No Longer Enjoy Fireball Like A Responsible Adult

Everyone has that one alcohol they consumed in mass quantities on that one epic night that still gets talked about years later that they can unfortunately no longer drink. I’m talking about the liquor that makes your stomach churn just thinking about it because the vomiting flashbacks are too real. The one that you refuse to accept even when the shots are free despite you being drunk and vulnerable at last call. The one that your friends constantly tease you about because their happy asses can still pound it like they’re sophomores in college.

For me, my no- go has been black licorice Dr.McGillicuddy’s. A very popular substance that, luckily, no one actually drinks anyway so the peer pressure to drink it is few and far between. One New Year’s Eve back in college, I made the wise choice to drink this debatably tasty alcohol with a rotation of root beer and cream soda as my mixers.

I had left the bartending duties to my friend on this particular evening, a choice I would soon regret. This devil water was going down smoothly and far too quickly. Needless to say I was violently puking up black liquid in the wee hours of the barely begun year. And upon my hungover awakening, I was dry heaving at brunch when my friends began talking about the formerly consumed beverages my body had earlier so willingly tried to exorcise. It was a pretty picture.

But that was then.

And now I have to do something that I never thought I would do. I’m adding another item to the list of beverages I refuse to sip, or chug, as the case may be.

I have to break up with Fireball.

I know, I know I can feel the hatred coming. People love this cinnamon poison that literally has a satanic creature on the bottle. And although I too used to welcome the shots with an open mouth, I simply can’t do it anymore.

The kicker is that I legitimately love cinnamon in every other form. Gum, mints, any kind of dessert or baking situation, toothpaste, etc, they’re all fine and dandy! Fireball on the other hand? Get that shit away from me.

Sure, there were warning signs before now. I should have pulled the plug long ago. But like any semi-adult trying to make it in this crazy world, I chose to ignore them.

Fireball was like that fuck buddy who keeps stringing you along saying you two would actually date if only the “timing was right.” And I let things continue because I initially really liked how I felt when we were together and things were oh so fun in the moment!

I’m not even sure when it all started. One day, out of nowhere, I couldn’t choke this seemingly innocent liquid down without needing a chaser. It would hit my throat and my body wanted to reject it immediately.

Once I took a shot, gagged upon contact and pulled one of those casually puke into your mouth and swallow it back down moves. Classy, I know. Another time I wasn’t so lucky and I was the girl legitimately puking at the bar. The classiness continues. Granted, it was onto the ground and a minuscule amount, but still.

The final straw came one night at the house warming party of my bff’s former boss. After reluctantly taking shots of the stuff, I proceeded to thoroughly break in his newly built house by vomiting in two toilets and a bathroom sink multiple times. The only plus to that evening’s events was that it was not me who ran over their mailbox with my car. Sometimes you take what you can get.

The next morning in my cloudy haze, I repeated a phrase that I never legitimately thought I would utter, let alone believe it to actually be true: “I’m too old for this.”

The time had come to end my abusive relationship with Fireball.

And so, beloved by the masses cinnamon liquid, I’m here to call things off. I would say it’s me and not you, but we both know that isn’t true. You know what you did, and I’m through.

Sure, things will be awkward for awhile when we meet at the bar as you try to lure me back into that once comfortable same old, same old situation. And sure, I will probably struggle with ignoring your 2 am booty call texts aka that free shot someone buys the group right at closing time. But I think this is really for the best, and I hope you can understand where I’m coming from.

And hey, try not to take it too hard. We’ll always have the memories.

Image via Shutterstock

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Whatever Lola Wants

Outward appearance of being a hot mess with just enough Type A personality to not be a complete disappointment to my parents. Almost as good at avoiding commitment as I am at holding my liquor.

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