My Aberlour would stick out like a sore thumb in this dry county. I’m going to keep it in my kitchen cabinet as long as I can without caving to temptation, because I just know I’ll finish the bottle twenty-seven times faster if I just crack into it without the appropriate precautions. You know, the bi-annual sacrifice of shirt sleeves to the God of Spoiled Clothing, followed by the fly fishing ritual I developed, keeping me serious about my drinking.

Only if I catch a trout between 11 and 12 inches in length may I break the seal on the spirit I’ve carefully bogarted. My wait has now lasted three months, two weeks and six days, but it honestly only feels like two months, three weeks and four days to me. That’s the power of arbitrary rituals constructed as a way to divert the mind away from delicious, peaty poisons.

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