Pulling my stove apart and deep cleaning because fuck you, that’s why.

Powered by Evan Williams Bottled in Bond.

For me, not the stove. Stove is drinking pure Lysol. I can’t keep up with that.

Just washed my broom and dustpan in the sink. You may have me taken away now. #QuarentineLife

Trivia: One of my writing gigs has been writing about and reviewing whiskey for a prominent industry publication. I can be credited with being a professional drinker. Putting my late grandfather to amateur shame. And, unlike him, I never totaled Dodge Charger in the act.

I also never put out lit cigarettes on the bottoms of my feet as a small child. He couldn’t claim that one, either. #OverSharingMonday

More trivia: I drank more before I was 21 than after. My dad allowed me to drink beer and wine as a kid. I grew up mostly in Europe. Ironically, he taught me to be responsible with booze and guns by exposing me to them as a youngster. I was shooting very, very young.

When I became an adult, I saw the damage done by drugs and alcohol in my extended family and basically didn’t drink at all in my 20s. Seeing other folks self-medicate in the military reinforced this decision.

Also, I grew up thinking I hated whiskey because my dad thought NyQuil and Theraflu were a waste of money. He would make me hot toddies when I was sick, so I associated whiskey with that.

Then, one magical day, I discovered Lagavulin in Estes Park, Colorado.

The clouds parted. Angels sang. Time stood still.

I love whiskey. But only expensive whiskey.

And cheap whiskey.

And moderately-priced whiskey.

As it so happens, whiskey loves me, too.

I bought short shorts. Once this quarantine ends, you’ll all be pregnant.

Now you’ll at least know why.

This is why I have to live alone on a mountain in the middle of nowhere. I am just too damn much fun.