Got a bit drunk the night before my surgery.
Paperwork said not to drink.
I thought, if I don’t wake up,
and don’t visit my favorite pub and have
at least one Manhattan, what’s the point
of not having a damn drink.
So we went to the pub.
The next morning I told the anesthesiologist,
“I had a beer last night.”
“Yea? What time was that?”
“You’ll be fine.” He smiled.
“And by a beer I mean a few drinks.”
“Eh. You’ll be fine.”
And I was.
I don’t ask permission to live my life.
Cheers. To thine own self be true.