My friend and colleague Wetsoks normally greets me on messenger the same way every morning. On the days that she deviates from this, it usually acts as an early indicator of some sort of trouble. This morning was no different.
Wetsoks: Oh buddy.
Wetsoks: Rusty. Nails.
Wetsoks: ...is what I drank last night.
Me: Oh. I see. Hahaha!
Wetsoks: I'm too old for this shit.
Me: I doubt the veracity of your "too old" statement - my great uncle drank heavily into his 70s. Of course, he died of alcoholism, but the point still remains.
Wetsoks: Bitch. I had facetime with the porcelain throne this morning.
Me: So it's serious then?
Wetsoks: It's an expensive hangover. The client kept buying me £7 drinks. It would have been rude to say no.
Me: Of course. Your logic makes perfect sense.
Wetsoks: I'm never drinking whisky or Drambuie again. Separately or together.
Me: DON'T SAY THAT.
Wetsoks: NEVER. DO YOU HEAR?
Me: No, we're on separate floors. Yell louder. Also, you make whisky sad.
Wetsoks: Whisky is Scottish. It can take the rejection. Drambuie will comfort it.
Me: I'm not sure - Drambuie always seemed kind of flighty to me.
Wetsoks: I have bacon. Bacon fixes whisky.
Me: Bacon fixes everything. Except too much bacon. And even then, there is wiggle room.