Citing, “what’s the point,” local writer and columnist, James Smith, age 28, decides to drink alcohol instead of writing. Mr. Smith was heard mumbling to himself as he opened another Tecate and placed a slice of lime inside. “You don’t judge me Tecate, you’re my friend.” He begins what appears to be a sip that turns into three or four gulps. “Oh no! I swallowed the lime!” He looks longingly towards the lime on the cutting board in the kitchen. Mr. Smith lifts his body out of the chair and then slowly lowers himself back into the seat. He picks up the lime-less beer and takes another gulp. “It’ll mix in my stomach.”
Always the optimist, James, against all odds, keeps drinking. “I’m not alone because I’m with my cats.” He asked we put a smiley face emoji in the article but we will not. “Time to get another one!” We weren’t sure if he meant another cat or another beer because he just kept looking at the empty wall ahead. Eyes unblinking and face expressionless.
When pressed on what he will do when his 12-pack of full-flavored lager runs out. “Well it’s still light out and my sunglasses are already on so I’m confident,” Mr. Smith lets out a cathartic burp, “I’ll be able to run out and get another one. I do have whiskey though, so I may not even need to leave my futon. Life has a funny way of working out, you know.” As we left his apartment we distinctly heard, which we will describe as entrepreneurial and free-thinking, sobbing and the cracking open of a cold, refreshing Tecate.