I Love Scotch. Scotchy Scotch Scotch.

It was a good weekend. Last night, I went out to Claddagh, an Irish pub in Pittsburgh, with Amy and Mike. For some reason I wasn't hungry, even though it'd been seven hours since I'd had anything to eat, so while they ate, I drank, a lot. Then we went to Ibiza, with an impossibly suave foreign-accented bartender, and Mike bought us Johnnie Walker Black, as a celebration of his high Boards score (250! Jesus!). I had had scotch before, in college, because the master of JE loved it and had a tasting once. At that time, I thought, blecch. Last night, however, possibly because I was a little buzzed (I'd sobered up on the walk over to Ibiza), I really enjoyed it. I still don't know if I'd choose a scotch when I go out to a bar in the future, but last night, it was nice to take little sips and enjoy the smokiness. The one that Mike ordered tasted like liquid smoke. And actually, as if that weren't enough, after last call at Ibiza, Mike and Amy and I walked down to the river and smoked a pack of cigarettes between us. (I can still smell the nicotine on my right index and middle fingers, a day later, after repeated washings. Yuck.)