Years ago, in a Hellblazer TPB by the name of Dangerous Habits, John Constantine described the razor-thin line between the head and body of a pint of (literally) magical stout. Somewhere in my room I have said trade paperback, but I don't want to dig it out, because I'm too busy enjoying pretty much that exact same fine line. Instead of booze traded for my soul, however, I'm drinking booze traded for money, but man, I gotta say that a pint of Bridgeport Black Strap Stout, when poured so that there's that crisp line between the head and body, is an excellent physical representative of the more subjective fine line between clear-minded tipsiness and despondent drunkenness. Alas, it's so very hard to walk that line.
Y'all know which side I lean towards, but I reckon you won't lose too much respect for me for it.
Man, I wish it was a Friday night and my brother was around.
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