I love alcohol. I love bourbon. I love scotch. I love what my friend, Nick, and I affectionately call “the ocho” (8 shots of patron). I love pretending like I know a lot about fine wine. Jaeger bombs will always have a special place in my heart. Sake always knows exactly what to say to make me smile. I don’t consider myself an alcoholic, but others might.
With all that said, I don’t blame my roommate, Joe, for doubting my willpower. On April 27, after returning from a weeklong vacation/bender in New York, I had a sudden urge to live a healthier lifestyle. Joe had recently finished abstaining from alcohol for 40 days for some Catholic ritual, and I figured that may be just what I needed in my life. My resolution: one month of sober living.
Like I said, Joe is a doubtful, horrible horrible man. Knowing my track record, he was confident that this was a resolution I could not possibly keep. Thus, the bet was made. If I could go 30 days without a drop of alcohol in my system, Joe would buy me my choice of a bottle of whiskey. My addendum: The Slap.
We have now wrapped up day 26 of the slap bet. In just 5 short days, I will have the power to slap Joe once as hard as I can at anytime I see fit. I have been performing hand stretching exercises. I’ve been lifting. I’ve been eating meat. Most importantly, I’ve been planning.
No, Joe will not be slapped right away. He will have many false positives. He will see my right hand wound up dozens of times, but there will be no follow through. He may wake up every morning to the loud thud of my palm slamming on his door for weeks. But no slap will come. Instead, the idea of the slap will fester. Joe prides himself as a man of strong mental fortitude. But I assure you, my friends, the fear of the slap will consume him.
And my sweet sweet reward. The red silhoutte of my right hand on his face. O what a joyful day.