Levels of addiction

As expected, last night was a prototypical exercise in childish sulking.  I trudged through the rain to the corner liquor-and-grocery, picked out my dinner of a) peanut butter M&Ms (delicious) and b) sweet potato chips (... nutritious?), then had to angle awkwardly around a couple of what I can only assume were young resident physicians, standing in the middle of the cramped booze section and talking loudly about how so-and-so was "totally septic!" -- they're way more charming on Scrubs.  Since I at least had the foresight to avoid a whole bottle of wine on the shaky foundation of aforementioned "dinner," it took me awhile to decide on which pint-sized single would make me look the least like a lonely alcoholic.  I finally picked out some crappy hard cider that tasted like apple-flavored Mad Dog, but for a night of commanding undead armies in a dark, empty apartment, there could probably be no better choice to drink straight out of the bottle.  Basically, I'm twelve, but with a liquor ID.

It's supposed to storm again today, to which I can only say: OMFG NO.  If I miss another flight, I may not be so innocent in my choice of sulking.  I wonder if you can get kicked out of an airport for purchasing a bottle of duty-free liquor and consuming it inside the terminal?  Only one way to find out.