I choose the first bottle with a degree of care. The cat will be watching as I drink it, and besides, there’s always a chance that I’ll taste this one.
Pinot rouge, which is a joke to myself, because its black and red, a wine in a sweater which later will be a truth as I drink.
A good first start. The second choice is more difficult. Something fruity, but without the heaviness of a bottle of domestos. I don’t want to clean my teeth until later.
The normals, looking around the shop for something to drink as opposed to numb the dull sensation of their pointless and inevitable decline, choose a four pack.
Ideas are infectious as I grab three more of the same, rabid as my mouth salts inside with the thought of inevitable repetition, killing ninety nine percent of known thoughts, dead.