Don't drive a car in the dream, else you won't drive it on earth. Don't wish to become, else you won't become. Don't associate with fools, else your ancestors will be insulted. Don't be addicted to wine, else your pocket will be empty. Don't be drunk, else you'll be attacked.

Drink [the shot of tequila], Mia." He repeated, quietly, using my name this time. He leaned in close to me so that I could feel the heat of his body. "Believe me," His eyes locked on mine and in a hoarse voice he whispered, "you're going to want to be drunk for what I'm going to do to you tonight.

Mr Cobb was my escort. Such a nice escort, Mr Cobb. So attentive. You should see him sober. I should see him sober. Somebody should see him sober. I mean, just for the record. So it could become a part of history, that brief flashing moment, soon buried in time, but never forgotten - when Larry Cobb was sober.

Хорошо бы остаться пьяным на всю жизнь.(«Гроздья гнева»)

While binge drinking is a significant issue, it is likely that many members of the public would be surprised by its categorisation as a mental illness, particularly at the milder end."Public confusion caused by differing understandings of the term 'mental illness'.Jorm AF, Reavley NJ.Aust N Z J Psychiatry. 2012 May;46(5):397-9. PMID: 22535288

But I did not return until half past four this morning and I distinctly remember stubbing my toe on the stairs. I am as drunk as a skunk, Drumknott, which of course means skunks are just as drunk as I. I must say the term is unfamiliar to me, and I had not thought hitherto of skunks in this context, but Mustrum Ridcully was kind enough to enlighten me.

An empty bottle of Jack is almost just as beautiful as a new and unopened bottle...in the same sense as looking down at muddied feet, and looking back the way you came. The journey you've taken to get to this point, the experiences and sights and music listened to, the shit scrolled down on paper. An empty bottle may hold more promise than a full one in that regard...

There were, however, a few exceptions.One was Norma Dodsworth, the poet, who had not unpleasantly drunk but had been sensible enough to pass out before any violent action proved necessary. He had been deposited, not very gently, on the lawn, where it was hoped that a hyena would give him a rude awakening. For all practical purposes he could, therefore, be regarded as absent.

He took a breath, then proclaimed, 'Lady Shaselle of Hytanica, I am in love with you.' I burst into laughter, pulling my legs up to ease my aching stomach muscles. He rolled onto his side to look at me, propping his head up with his hand. 'I'm serious,' he insisted, grinning foolishly at me. 'You're drunk.' 'True, but even drunks can be in love.

Henry shook his head, 'I was drunk,' he said, trying to sound both ashamed and firm in this belief. He remembered the rosebush incident very clearly, of course, but he knew that sneaking into the bedroom window of his fiancee's little sister wasn't something he wanted to explain to his father. Sometimes, Henry reflected, being taken for a perpetual drunk was sort of convenient.

Where had he been? Drinking, obviously. Then she started cataloging all the ways he was worthless. On fool impulse, as his most potent available argument against Lily, Bud stuck his hands into his coat pockets and pulled out the many bundles of hundreds and threw them on the bedspread. If you were honest and stupid, you worked a couple of lifetimes for that kind of money, doled out by the hour in pocket-change amounts by asswipe bosses.

Nonsense. Hardly touched a drop. That much.” She held out two fingers to show how tiny an amount “that much” was.“Just went to a party,” said Richard, “and saw Jessica and saw a real angel and got a little black pig and came back here.”“Just a little drink,” continued Door, intently. “Old, old, drink. Tiiiiny little drink. Very small. Almost not there.” She began to hiccup.

(Nicholas)"Am I dead?"An odd question, but then she rememberd her mourning attire. "No sir, you are not."He relaxed a moment, then turned his head slightly as if searching for other passengers. His brows dived in a scowl.Am I married?"She wasn't sure how to answer. His kid gloves hid any evidence of his matrimonial state, but his expression of instantaneous alarm and regret suggested he was referring specifically to her. No sir, we are not.

Yeah, I got her,” Will confirms.“Who you got?” I ask.“You, drunk girl. Come on.” He turns to lead me toward the exit, and I start to follow him, but for some reason my feet don’t work very well.“Um, Will?”“Yeah?”“I lost my feet.”“What?” he laughs and pinches the bridge of his nose.“I can’t find my feet.”Why is everyone laughing at me? This is serious!

Popping open a bottle of Southern Comfort to wet our whistles, we’d remember with a sense of having been personally cheated all our favorite musicians were dead, Hendrix and Morrison prime examples of people who refused to grow up, heroes of ours as much for what they stood against as what they stood for, and we’d sing a round or two of “All We Do Is Drugs” to the tune of “All You Need Is Love” in homage to their memory.