“You know they’re gonna say we’re bad for each other, but we ain’t good for anyone else.”
This couldn’t be truer. I know that you are bad for me. I can feel it in my bones and in my blood.
You give me the same feelings as fireball whiskey.
When I don’t have you, I want you. I crave you. When I finally get you, it’s a feeling of relief and familiarity. At first, you are sweet, but then you start to burn. If you’re a fireball drinker, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
When it first hits my lips, when you first hit my lips, oh the sweetness. I could just drink it up. As it starts to flow down my throat, it burns. An incredible burn that only a masochist can truly enjoy. When I let you in, you start to set me ablaze. Neither in a good way nor a bad way. Just a soul on fire.
The whiskey travels down my throat and into my stomach, it warms me as it goes down. I hate to admit that you do the same. When I let you in, I know you’re bad, but you give me that warm, tingly feeling in the pit of my stomach. Something in the air hints at me that I shouldn’t move any closer, but what you instill in me is much stronger.
The fireball hits my blood stream and I come alive. When I drink, I feel an ultimate high and then the lowest low. I feel on top of the world, and the suddenly underneath it.
You make me believe and feel that we are pure greatness, but as time progresses, I know that we are only a rollercoaster approaching the top of the hill before plummeting towards the center of the Earth. I know what you do to me, but I seem to not care. I care, but not enough to stop. I know what fireball does to me, but it is still my drink of choice. You are my choice. We are bad for each other, but I can’t imagine myself being better for anyone else.
It’s funny because you hate fireball whiskey.