Official lyrics and music videos. You know it gets me girl when you dance like that. You know it kills me girl with your done it quite like you do. Your kiss is double barrel bourbon on the rocks I see your face. And I swear God made you for me . On every turn every street I drive down a memory. You're. Misc funny/witty quotes and aphorisms about alcohol and drinking. W. C. Fields . "It's all right to drink like a fish — if you drink what a fish drinks.." — Buy at "If you aren't sure if you are too drunk to drive home, order a shot. Now you are " God created (alcohol|whiskey|Guiness) so the irish wouldn't conquer the world.". Published: 4 November, · Filed Under: Song Lyrics . It's so easy to say but God dammit . I can see you dressing up, and wanting someone's blessing In a whiskey rage, and a heart would bleed. Alla my intentions, alla my drive.
She imagines how she'd fight back if whiskey were a woman. But whiskey has neither heart nor feelings, and she realizes that she cannot even ask for sympathy. Now he's looking to replace his dependence on whiskey with a "honky tonk angel. Whiskey or "whisky" in Canada and Scotlandis a distilled alcoholic drink produced from fermented grain mash typically rye, barley, corn, or wheat. It has a distinctive brown color and is aged in charred oak casks. She's addictive, and he claims one kiss gets him totally wasted and wanting more.
In doing so, he compares his ex to the whiskey he's drinking: The narrator expresses his feelings of alcohol-enhanced invincibility: Over a high stakes game of cards, one whiskey drinker imparts advice to another: Whiskey gives the card player liquid courage, and he's unpredictable.
This will likely be his undoing if he doesn't make the right choice now. She gets him fired up, like a combination of sunshine and whiskey. Normally a strong man, the narrator in this country ditty from confesses two weaknesses: When he feels like his world is closing in on him, he crawls back to both of them, regardless of whether it's a healthy choice. He describes the on-again off again relationship he has with both: Whiskey and you Ain't nothing I can do But come crawling back to Whiskey and you.
It throws around the names of mixed drinks and brands of adult beverages with little point. It's a party song with whiskey as its slurred focus. Those laws apply to dirt roads, too. The narrator has mixed a little Jim Beam with something in a Dixie cup and handed it to his girlfriend to relax her, hoping he'll get lucky.
He's excited because now they're headed down a dirt road: He's not drinking and driving, is he? Country music has way too much of this in it.
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Sex was a complicated bargain. It was chase, and it was hunt. It was hide-and-seek, clash and surrender, and the pendulum could swing inside my brain all night: I wanted the same freedom from internal conflict that my male friends seemed to enjoy. Many yeses on Friday nights would have been nos on Saturday mornings. I had wanted alcohol to make me fearless, but by this point I was scared all the time. Afraid I would have to stop.
Afraid of a life without alcohol, because booze had been my trustiest tool.
I needed alcohol to drink away the things that plagued me. Not just my doubts about sex — my self-consciousness, my loneliness, my insecurities, my fears. I drank away all the parts that made me human, in other words, and I knew this was wrong.
My mind could cobble together a thousand PowerPoint presentations to keep me seated on a bar stool.
Song Lyrics Archives - Cold Chisel
But when the lights were off and I lay very quietly in my bed, I knew: I was still wrapped in the soothing vapours of the cognac, no clue where I was, but not particularly concerned: I was pretty sure I was in my hotel. I recognised the swirly brown carpet, the brushed-steel light fixtures. The panic started when I noticed the time. It was almost 2am. The awfulness of my circumstances began to dawn on me. The sound of a narrow escape.
I was on my way to the elevator when I realised I did not have my bag: I did not have my way back home. I turned around and stared at the line of doorways behind me. They all look the same. When I finally stood up, I had a plan. But I could see the pity in his eyes.
He felt sorry for me. And somehow this pebble of sympathy was enough to shatter my fragile reserve. I crumpled into tears. He took my hand. His fingers were dry and cold, and they swallowed mine. And I believed him, because I needed to.
And there it was, finally. So you saw me with him tonight? As I headed towards the elevator, I felt like a new woman. I had a chance to restore order, to correct the insanity of the night. I would meet the guy downstairs, suffer the indignity of small talk, then take my stuff and bolt.
It was all going to be OK. I walked back into my room. And there, to the left of the entrance, on an otherwise unremarkable shelf, was my bag. I had lost so many things in my time: But what amazed me was how many things I did not lose, even when my eyes had receded into my skull. I never lost my phone. I never lost my keys. Part of this was simple survival: How did my bag get to my room? I have no idea, only that even in my blackout state, I made sure my treasure was tucked away safe: I called the front desk.
Maybe I should have been relieved, but I had the haunted shivers of a woman who felt the bullet whizz past her face. Now that my crisis was resolved, I could start beating myself up for the ways I had failed.
Such a wretched place to be. Alone in the dark, with your own misery.Hayley Kiyoko - Curious [Official Video]
Jackson stands in my doorway. He must be 6ft 2in.
My leather jacket is draped over his arm like a fresh towel. I stand there with my hand on the door and wonder how much to tip him. I step back from the door and give him entry. He closes the door and walks to my bed.
Are we going to get in trouble? He leans forward on the bed, resting his elbows on his knees. As I lay in bed, I felt the gratitude of a woman who knows she is done I think: Do I feel I owe him something?
He pulls me towards him, and we kiss. The kiss is neither bad nor good. I consider it a necessary penance. How little I care. All I keep thinking is: We lie in the bed, and I let him run his hands along me. At 4am, I push Jackson out the door. I climb into my bed and cry huge howling sobs. Real drunks wait and watch for the moment they hit bottom.
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As I lay in my hotel bed, covers pulled up to my neck, I felt the gratitude of a woman who knows, finally, she is done. But I drank on the flight home. And I drank for five more years. She is all grunt and grab, a pint-size party animal in a polka-dot romper, and we laugh at how much she reminds us of our drunken selves.
Any hint of music becomes a need to dance. Spinning in a circle. Slapping her toddler belly. One eye squinted, as though this balances her somehow. I recognise this as the freedom drinking helped me to recapture. And when I was finally spent, someone would scoop me up in their arms and place me safely in my crib again.