Lucid Absinthe Review!

I are so happy. Me luvum Absinthe.

In short it is damn tasty! I am on my second glass just now and fighting the urge to have a third on a work night. The taste is very pleasant and complex. The most powerful note is that of black liquorish, though it is far from overpowering. It is hard for my gin and whiskey burnt mouth to describe the nuances of this heavenly liquor properly. I will try.

Here is how to prepare Absinthe.

It tastes good and makes me feel very good. I have a sizable romantic account of my first glass after the break.

After impatiently smoking my way through my breaks at work I finally clocked out and jetted to the Binnys around the corner. I walked into the empty store a half an hour before closing time. The Tijuana Brass were drizzling out of the ceiling speakers with lo-fi majesty.

I walked briskly to the grody ethnic liquor cordial isle and found the green eyes staring at me from the middle shelf I had found them at yesterday. The six verdant black bottles seemed to huddle uncomfortably together, seeking solace from the Absente boxes on one side and the Pernod on the other. I liberated the bottle that called to me the loudest and silently apologized to the remaining five, vowing to return.
I half hoped the girl behind the counter would comment on my purchase, but she rang up my purchase with the same zeal that she would have for a simple purchase of Dr. Mcgillicutty by a cargo pant wearing frat boy on the turps. I doubled my pace both in my walk to my auto and on my drive home. I could yet even hear it! Through the very trunk liner! The beating of the hideous bottle!
I arrived home at thirty past nine, the prying eyes peaking from the corner of my satchel. I shed my hat and overcoat, along with it the chill of the crisp autumnal air. The call was so strong at this time. I removed the bottle from my carryall and placed it on the smoked glass table before me. Next to it, a tinted glass goblet I procured for a pittance from some crumbling, forgotten five and dime. I told myself that I would wait until the stroke of ten, to make it taste that much sweeter for want. The bottle sat, looking at me, into me. I decided to keep myself busy with poncey preparation.
I placed a bottle of spring water into the Frigidaire to be cooled in time for the great moment. I activated my laptopic-computer device and arranged a tasteful mixture of music from artists such as Tom Waits, Jason Webley, Datarock, and DragonForce. It was when I had finished and actuated the play automation mechanism that I felt a pull, yet stronger then before. I found my hand was pulling the tab from the cork in a slow shaky circle. I had told myself I was going to wait! Why was I doing this with a quarter of the hour remaining? An ethereal voice filled my mind. “Just open the bottle, smell the nectar! You can still wait to drink it.” I listened to the voices in my head quite against my will, and let loose the cork with a sound that only pale unknown things from the depths of the sea dare to utter. The bottle was beneath my nose and I was intoxicated.
So many scents, all at once, overwhelmed my senses. At first it smelled much like the araks and ouzos I had quaffed in past days, but after that passed there was so much more. My black cat “Medusa” lept upon the arm of the wingchair where I lay transfixed and jolted me out of my stupor. Upon one whiff of the dark stuff in the bottle my obsidian companion bolted from the room with a shrill hiss. I know now I should have listened to this most feline of portents, but, (bless my soul!) I did anything but.
I hastened to the kitchen and retrieved my now frigid flask of pure water. With my computo-box playing its recordings at full volume I poured a healthy measure of the viscous, murky liquor into the antique goblet. Its intriguing aroma filled the room as I let it breathe (though briefly!) in the glass. I cracked the seal of the water flask halfway and began to drip its life giving contents into my most affordable of goblets. Although my arms burned and grew weary as I held them awkwardly above my concoction, I could not stop, I could not look away from the amazing transformation that was taking place in front of my cloudy, mortal eyes.
With the first drops oily tendrils began to swirl about with a slow, magnanimous power. As the miniature cascade continued these translucent tentacles seemed to smolder! A green tinted smoke began to rise from the depths of the goblet in slow, lazy swirls. If a dagguerotype had been taken of my pale visage this night as I stared in awe it would surely serve as a lucrative draw at the penny peepshows for women and lesser men.
For hours it seemed I allowed that bottle to drip, the draw was now maddening! The eyes implored me to drink, drink, drink! The music rose to a crescendo! The clock began to strike the tenth hour! I could take it no longer! I clasped the glass in my clutch and raised it to my lips! O! Ecstasy! O! Ambrosia! Zeus himself clenched to his chest!
And so here I sit, gentleman and ladies, having consumed most of the elixir from my glass. Even now, the voices that were so mercifully tamed by this drink are growing in number once again. Once again the eyes, the terrible eyes, look in my direction, asking a wordless question that I cannot answer with my human vocal cords. I know another glass shall come after this, but than how many more? What have I done to myself, to this world? I warn you now brothers and sisters, as I prepare my next glass, never give in to forces you do not understand, listen only to your own mind and heart, and never, never give into that beautiful liquor that is Absinthe!