The Wonders of Wine

As I sit in Atmospheric Science class, pondering, first and foremost, how the hell I even ended up here, a realization so genuinely and perfectly profound hits me like a ton of shiny, golden bricks. What is that realization, you ask? Well, my friend… It is….

That I. Love. Wine.

And that I’m pretty drunk, because my grandfatherly professor is looking surprisingly sexy today.

Anyways, wine. It is the nectar of the gods and it is the perfect, delicious juice of life.

For real, if I were alive in ancient Egypt, you know, when they worshipped a bunch of different crazy ass gods, the god of wine would definitely be my homie.

Think about it, folks. I dare you to find a flaw with it. It tastes divine, it makes you love everyone (something we all know I could use a bit of help with), gives you more courage than the Wizard of Oz, not to mention makes you feel like two million bucks.

The mellow flush that courses through my veins with the first sip… It’s a beautiful thing. I challenge any of you hard liquor freaks to get that same feeling from your gross fermented potato juice. It won’t happen.

Don’t get me wrong; alcohol is alcohol is alcohol. And fucked up is fucked up is fucked up.

Oh, you only have hard liquor at this party? See ya, wouldn’t wanna be ya. Eye roll. Sassy walk back to the car.


Sometimes, you gotta do what you gotta do. And I understand the appeal of drinks like vodka, rum, tequila, etc. I really do. Take a few shots, boom! Wasteypants in 2.5 seconds.

Fun, yes. But entirely unnecessary. And dangerous, especially for females, who will almost inevitably not be able to hold their liquor (despite numerous protests to boyfriends, best friends, random strangers trying to walk their drunk ass home at 2 a.m. that they could totallyhandle that last game of flip-cup).

Sorry, ladies, but you know it’s true. Six shots in and suddenly Pickle Breath from your lab went from Carrot Top’s twin to Ryan Gosling’s hot younger brother.

Next thing you know, there’s a fire crotch in your face and then what? Given, you (thankfully) won’t remember the part where you told him you’ve always had a crush on him in the morning. But your friends will. And his friends. And you will never live it down.

Oops. Your mistake for taking pulls out of the Cuervo bottle.

Now take wine. Can it have the same effect? Hell yes. Been there, done that (no, I didn’t hook up with any gingers, but you know what I mean). But when used properly, it is not a bottle of liquid mistakes, but rather a drinkable catalyst for enhanced social skills.

I don’t know about you, but my level of cheeky goes from a 9 to a 10 when I’ve had enough vino. And guess what? People eat that shit up. Especially when they’re all well on their way to Vegas to meet up with Carrot Top for a sexual tryst. Or the ugly frat house, whatever.

Wine is to be sipped, and felt with each and every one. It is an experience, a partying lifestyle. Those women who stick with wine, are the women you want to stick around.

(Note: I can afford boxed wine, and boxed wine only. I’m still classier than you with your disgusting plastic bottle of Burnett’s)

I’m not here to judge your drink of choice; you do what you do, and be cheeky while you do it. But I am here to tell you you’re missing out on a gift from heaven.

And that beer makes you fat.
And tequila smells like ass.

But other than that, happy Monday! Drink up and stay cheeky, because today is going to suck.


About cheekystars123

I write what I know. I don't know a lot. But I know how to put thoughts into words. These are my thoughts; constantly contradicting themselves, swinging between the pendulum of extremes, never censored. I'm not as sane as my friends think I am, but I'm not as psychotic as I convey myself anonymously. So what does that make me? A rare breed? I like to think so. But I'm probably not as interesting as I'd like to believe. Aside from that, I tend to be a sarcastic bitch with rage problems. Don't believe a word I say, I'm probably definitely lying about most of it to make myself seem more interesting.
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