What happens when you drink too much absinthe



A guy named Sam Lloyd in the random search. He’s an actor. Amazingly, there was a photo of those words. A single photo. I don’t think this has happened before when the exact random article shows up.

Last night was an amazing experience. We all went to O’Malleys and had one last drink goodbye. Sam was leaving for the fight in Europe tomorrow and we were headed to divorce court. Sam suggested we all pound a few in honor of his leaving. We shrugged at each other and off we went. 

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O’Malleys is a damp, well worn tavern in our town. It’s the only place a good, righteous man can get a drink outside of his nagging home, though we aren’t the normal customers. No, O’Malleys tends to attract the type of people who think liquor is a food group.

“SAM!” yelled Walter from behind the century worn bar as we walked in.

Sam was well known by the frumpy owner, Walter. Sam explained the reason for our visit and Walter slyly excused himself and teetered to the backroom.

We chose a table that appeared to never been urinated on nor spotted the blood of a victim. As we sat down Walter came over and gently plaved a bottle in front of us. He set down three glasses, and I call them glasses since you could almost see through the dirt clinging to the sides, and wished us luck.

Yes, Walter brought us absinthe. The wife, Sam and I began our journey. While I cannot tell you what happened in a logical, sequential manner, I can tell you at one point we all ended in bed together with the bottle of absinthe long gone.

The next morning the wife offered to fix Sam’s dress shirt, while begging me to take a picture. Hand to god, there were two sets of them when I brought the viewfinder up to capture the moment. Oh, absinthe, you devil.