|You Are Tequilla|
When you drink, you're serious about getting drunk!
You'll take any shot that's offered up to you...
Even if it tastes like sock sweat!
And you're never afraid of eating the worm.
It's fairly obvious that the program threw out this erroneous little assumption based on my dislike for sweet, syrupy drinks, and, ahem, the thing about throwing up on the bar.
Just because a girl can chunder with the best of them when a double vodka mickey gets slipped into her seventh snakebite, it doesn't mean I'd swallow down old socks, or bite worms. Really, a lady has standards, you know.
Yes, it was a long time ago, when I and my liver were younger and found it easier to bounce back. Yes I recovered sufficiently to threaten the fun-boy responsible, to strut in a scary-lady fashion around the pool room brandishing two halves of a screw-threaded snooker cue in such a way that even though it belonged to him, he didn't dare ask for it back, and then even to pass the ultimate 'Oh God I'm drunk and he's looking at me' test and to do the grand exit thing and strut off down the road in a haughty, disdainful manner with all the prescence of Cher, on cheap stiletto boots that could snap an ankle while the world spinned and I fought the desire to let my stomach reprise the clear out. So Ha.