Coke and Whiskey

I will be yankee through and through until the day I die, unless you hand me a coke and whiskey. Put a bottle of coke in my hand (preferably with some fighting cock mixed in) and I automatically feel the need to put on some boots, curl my hair, do my makeup, and drive a truck through some mud.

For anyone who was wondering I didn’t go straight for the good stuff, I had a transition period when I left the midwest in which I settled into a routine of rum and dr. pepper in shitty college bars. It was a grand old time, but I out grew it when I met the man who introduced me to the south in a way I had never experienced it before. I grew up believing that southerners were crazy conservatives who loved jesus differently than I ever could, carried guns for reasons I could never understand, and voted for people like Donald Trump. Gosh did he prove me wrong.

There is something about nursing a hangover in the passenger seat of a pickup trunk while listening to Johnny Cash that will never get old. Something comforting about being in an apartment with someone who has a shotgun in their bedroom when PTSD has you up all night, something exciting about sneaking coke and whiskey into a music festival, and something uniquely southern about driving down backroads at 2am on a Monday morning. I’ll never vote republican, but I guess the saying is true that if you life in the south long enough, it becomes a part of your soul.


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