Good Spirits

It's true that too much of a good thing can end poorly. That is especially true when it comes to drinking. I remember my first sip...
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I was 5 years old, and, I was curious about the silver and red can that was next to my grandmother's rocker. I couldn't make out the words, but--with my grandest assumption possible--I thought that it was some sort of soda. I made sure to spring up from my Legos and make a grab for the can when she went to the kitchen to check on dinner. I seized the perspiring aluminum, took my first swig of the hop hazard, and tears immediately poured down my face as it greased my throat.

Then, my grandmother came back into the living room as I was placing the can back from whence I snatched it.

"Ryan," (or, as it is pronounced with a heavy Pennsylvanian German accent "Rhy-en") she said. "Did you jus' take a sip o' that ol' Milwahkay?"

My stomach turned. a kaleidoscope replaced my vision. I was confused, and poisoned. But still, I made an attempt to lie.

Then she cut me off.

"Ya shoulda jus' asked, hon," she said. "I would have given you one sip."

And that was my very first experience.
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Since that time, I didn't drink anything else until I was 18 and my mother caught me with a bottle of Goldschlager in my room (I know...disgusting). I never spent time drinking, partying, or doing anything else until I was "of age" because I was too goal orientated and scared of my youth. I was lame by other peoples' standards.

Now, I take time to enjoy things (and not just a good Irish whiskey, a nice bottle of Cabernet with dinner, or a stout during the bleakest of Decembers). I'm becoming used to taking risks and reaping the benefits of dangling ones toes near the edge. And, as always, I've been taking advantage of how refreshing life can be when you shed the filters that hinder you speech, thought, and actions (within reason) and live not for others, but with others, and--most importantly--for yourself.

Okay, I'm done being a corny, albeit truthful (as always) little Puerto Rican/PA German bastard. Here's some poesy.
____________________
Why I drink

I don't get it.
I walk into the cafe
and all the kids look like
they stepped out of catalogs,
and off the pages of calendars.

They're not what I was promised.

They aren't as run down as me.

They fear their body hair
and their bodily functions.

They didn't have to smell their dinner
before they debated over whether of not
to eat
or starve.

I bet they don't know my freedom.

Or,
if they do,

I bet they aren't as afraid of it
as I am,

And the older crowd
They seem to rickety
in this town.

They refuse to believe
that the good days
are never dead and gone.

They don't look like flowers anymore.

They hang around until it's time
to push up daises.

The youth
aren't lost anymore.
Their shadows sit too heavy
upon their backs.

They crave distraction
and don't make time
to cradle sadness.

I'm afraid that they don't know how to live with themselves anymore.

A pint
should have remained a unit
of liquid measurement
whilst failing math class.

A shot
is for gambling,
or what rings out
while running away with something
that doesn't belong to you.

I should stop.

But they won't.

So, why bother?
____________________

My ride's here.

~Torres