Just routine....
Apr. 12th, 2012 11:46 pmFive or six in the afternoon, it could be earlier ... or later, who would know? the hour wasn't important, not when he was in that state. Bail would drink all he wanted, he would drink until others fainted beside him and would drink some more after that, he really loved alcohol, not because it acted as some sort of anesthesia to his broken heart, actually the pink haired bar owner was pretty much a happy person - No, he loved alcohol because his father taught him to, the professor was a fan of liquors, wines and beers of all sorts, he taught Bail to really enjoy them and not just to drown in them.
Bail would drink a lot yes, but he'd taste and really enjoy every single drop. He would never drink wine or liquor from a bottle, or would mix them with the wrong food or use them in the wrong situations, no, his father taught him to appreciate alcohol, to look at it as one of the greatest creations of man, so all the years after his father passed away he'd learn more and more about that simple thing that brought together him and his father in many ways.
Such hobby although, brought it's own consequences. Even when Bail wouldn't pass out from the great amount of alcohol he consumed, or when his liver would never present signs of deterioration due to the alcohol the hangover the morning after those party nights wouldn't forgive him.
Each and every single day he would wake up in the middle of the afternoon with his head feeling like it was about to explode and with his face pale as if it belonged to a corpse, his green eyes that usually sparkle and glow with his smile would be empty of light and life, and he would be annoyed by every single thing and any poor soul that dared to pass in front of him in those moments would be scared away by that horrible mood.
He'd wake up to the nonstop meowing of his many cats, would walk zombie like to the kitchen and prepare himself a cup pf coffee as a companion to the bunch of aspirins he'll need to control his headache, walking between his furry house mates that keep asking for food and walking around him when he's trying to move like if they were attempting to trip him.
Hours pass and 'Blake Taylor' would watch T.V, check his voice messages, go shopping for the food his cats have been waiting, and eventually his good mood would return and he'd transform into the people's favorite silly drunk, he'd take a shower, walk around naked for some minutes while he feeds his hungry pets, and dress up all handsome for another night at the bar, so the vicious circle can repeat once again, but there's nothing that can be done, because after all he really does love to drink.
Bail would drink a lot yes, but he'd taste and really enjoy every single drop. He would never drink wine or liquor from a bottle, or would mix them with the wrong food or use them in the wrong situations, no, his father taught him to appreciate alcohol, to look at it as one of the greatest creations of man, so all the years after his father passed away he'd learn more and more about that simple thing that brought together him and his father in many ways.
Such hobby although, brought it's own consequences. Even when Bail wouldn't pass out from the great amount of alcohol he consumed, or when his liver would never present signs of deterioration due to the alcohol the hangover the morning after those party nights wouldn't forgive him.
Each and every single day he would wake up in the middle of the afternoon with his head feeling like it was about to explode and with his face pale as if it belonged to a corpse, his green eyes that usually sparkle and glow with his smile would be empty of light and life, and he would be annoyed by every single thing and any poor soul that dared to pass in front of him in those moments would be scared away by that horrible mood.
He'd wake up to the nonstop meowing of his many cats, would walk zombie like to the kitchen and prepare himself a cup pf coffee as a companion to the bunch of aspirins he'll need to control his headache, walking between his furry house mates that keep asking for food and walking around him when he's trying to move like if they were attempting to trip him.
Hours pass and 'Blake Taylor' would watch T.V, check his voice messages, go shopping for the food his cats have been waiting, and eventually his good mood would return and he'd transform into the people's favorite silly drunk, he'd take a shower, walk around naked for some minutes while he feeds his hungry pets, and dress up all handsome for another night at the bar, so the vicious circle can repeat once again, but there's nothing that can be done, because after all he really does love to drink.