I’m not going to pretend like Vodka hasn’t been around the block; he’s a tramp, but the more I hate him, the more I love him. I hate the way he smells like nail polish remover, but I love the filthy burn on the way down. I hate the awkward morning after, but I love the tingle in my tummy when we’re in the heat of the moment. I love his hit-or-miss quality but despise his price range.

I remember when I first met Vodka; he was cleverly disguised in an Ice Mountain water bottle, and he watched as I gave back massages to everyone at the party. He pretended not to care when I stole kisses from him and continued giving my full attention to some kid named, Mitch, because he was busy making his way around the party, too. Basically, he was a tease, and that appealed to me.

I had an international affair with Vodka in the form of something called, “Wodka O,” which I later learned was a “Screwdriver” in German. Vodka’s European cousin liked to dance and do George Bush impersonations, and I was alright with that.

Vodka and I met again in my college dorm room; he was in a bottle with an eagle on it, which I found incredibly majestic. He didn’t stop me when I drank nearly a third of the bottle, but he taught me tough love as I tightly hugged the toilet. He watched as another guy stroked my hair and then paid me back with another gut-wrenching round of “What did I eat for dinner? Let’s see.”

I grew to love Vodka more and more. Actually, I grew to love fruit juice more and more because it masked what Vodka really was: consumable gasoline. On the night of a British themed party, I discovered that pomegranate juice completely masked the taste of Vodka. After five of them, I thought Margaret Thatcher really was Margaret Thatcher, and my fake accent sounded more “Russian Mistress” than “Princess Di.” Vodka and I left a goopy, pink mess all over our college campus before enduring a horrendous break-up. (Vodka insisted we do it seven more times in the bathroom of my ex-boyfriend’s apartment.)

For the next three years, I cheated on Vodka with his frenemy, Beer. The relationship I had with Beer was much deeper than the one I had with Vodka; we talked books, politics, and music. We dined on gourmet burgers and sweet potato fries; the only place Vodka ever took me was McDonald’s. I soon forgot I ever had a past with a distilled grain and fell hard for anything fermented with yeast. Beer tickled my palate with hints of coffee and vanilla and caramel; he teased me with bitter and sour and tang. Vodka, however, completely skipped the foreplay and made it clear he was only in it for the finish.

Vodka recently snuck back into my life by smoothly (and deliciously) combining himself with soymilk. I told myself I wouldn’t go back; I can’t handle anymore heartbreak (and burn) and long nights spent lying on my bathroom floor in my underwear, staring at the ceiling wishing he’d stop hurting me. I can’t deal with more empty promises of fun nights and hangover-free mornings.

But I’ve got a full bottle in my freezer, and I’m ready to give him another chance.

– Heidi Thomasoni, with bonus .gif

Photo by basykes (Creative Commons)