Take a gallon of vodka. That’s right, the more the better… And mix it with 1 1/5 cups of salty and warm tears. Make sure the tears are fresh. Blend the ingredients well, so the next morning you feel like you died, and Satan’s minions are now frying you on hot pans in the seventh circle of hell. (When you get dumped there’s nothing better than vodka, the bitter elixir that makes you careless, dumb and bold).
Add half a cup of milled ice, pure and sparkly just like the snow that day in December, when Inga left. Two weeks before her birthday by the way. How generous, but impractical of her though. The vile harpy probably thought she saved me from buying the gift, but I already had one, hidden in my closet between the dress shirts – little blue Tiffany box tied with a glossy white ribbon… I looked at her perfect lips that belched flows of steam in the cold and listened to the words that made blood in my veins freeze. “I don’t love you anymore. Deal with it as you wish, as you can,” she said. She walked away firmly. And never looked back. And I stood there with my blood failing to circulate, with my heart heavy and bursting.
Anyways, now pour ¼ cup of pineapple juice. It will add a citrus flavor. That sourish drink she loved so much. Inga could eat and drink nothing else but the juice all day, and then a little bit more before going to bed. On our second date she laughed when I told her I first tried a pineapple when I was eighteen. Exotic fruits were rare and expensive in Russia as I was growing up, we would barely see tangerines in our village. But she grew up in the States. She knew passion fruit, and star fruit, and guava, and I felt like she knew life, and I didn’t…
When the tears are settled at the bottom of the glass, add 4 tablespoons of brown sugar, and stir clockwise. A little sweetener will make it drinkable, and less gross when you throw it all up in the middle of the night.
Got cream? Good. Throw it in the dumpster – cream is for pussies. Better pour some tequila, gin, whisky, whatever you can find leftovers of inside the bottles in your lonely bachelor den, dirty, cold, and stuffy.
Now when you are drunk enough, da hell with her.