What Your Cocktail Says About You

Last week, I had a very magical experience.

I drank possibly the best Old Fashioned ever made. Lemme spill the details:

WHO: Served by hunky beefcake bartender named Hart. (Yes, that’s his real name. No, he’s not single. But you can probably bounce a quarter off that ass.)
WHAT: An outstanding Old Fashioned made with Bulleit Rye. And simple syrup instead of sugar. No cherry. And just a twist of orange. #Orgasmic
WHERE: Fox N Hounds in Studio City.
WHY: I was thirsty.

Hart is gorgeous…but kinda camera-shy.

As I slowly sipped the alcoholic ambrosia, I realized that just a few years ago, I never would have enjoyed such a heavenly concoction. I spent most of the last decade gagging at the scent of whiskey. Bourbon made me wanna barf. But as time goes on and our palates develop, our tastes tend to evolve.

I thought about the last 15 years. How have my cocktail preferences changed? And what do they say about me and what’s going on in my life?

Hard Cider

“Hi, I’m a freshman in college. I met some sketchy boys who work at a gas station. They are sneaking this boozy apple juice into my dorm. They’re much older than I am but who cares? This sh*t tastes amazing! And they know so much about biofuels!”

How much cider could a Woodchuck chuck if a Woodchuck could chuck cider?


“Hi, I was getting fat from drinking too much cider. Now I just throw back shots and get overly intoxicated in the span of 18 minutes. I wake up in another city wearing someone else’s pants, covered in glitter, shame, and hot dog buns. Hangovers make me want to die.”

Evil. Just plain evil.


“Hi,  I can never drink tequila again after the other night. The smell of tequila invokes an involuntary sputter way down in the deepest pit of my stomach. A nice lovely vodka soda with lime is simple, plain, and much easier to digest. Kinda like toast. And speaking of breakfast, it’s okay to drink vodka in the morning if it’s inside a Bloody Mary.”

Whiskey (the “training wheels kind”)

“Hi, I want to seem like a cool whiskey drinkin’ chick, but I still want my drink to taste like candy, so please go light on the Seagrams 7, and heavy on the 7-Up. Oh, and I need like 4 slices of lemon and lime. But trust me, I’m cool!”

Whiskey (the “getting better kind”)

“Hi,  I’m graduating off of the whiskey toddler bicycle. I kinda love the smokiness of Johnny Black. And HOLY SH*T, Christina Hendricks is one of the most stunning creatures on earth.” #boobs #girlcrush

Meowwwww. You little minx.

Whiskey (“the Holy Grail kind”)

“Hi, I’m definitely not VIP enough to get my paws on this stuff, but I’m working on befriending people who can. Should a sip of this nectar pass my lips, I shall cheer with quiet delight, because I’m f*cking classy.”

Gimme gimme gimme!

Cheers, my friends!

Husband material.

My Contempt For The B-Line

In honor of the Kim Tronicles turning one year old, I wanted to indulge in a little Throwback Thursday action (even though today is Wednesday….d’oh). During my days at Emerson College, I relied on the subway for transportation, like most Bostonians. But I soon grew intolerant toward the Green Line. And incredibly hateful toward the B-Line, specifically. One cold blustery day, as I sat on the dirty steps toward the back of the trolley, I couldn’t hold in my anger any longer. I penned a little ditty called “My Contempt For The B-Line.”

12 years later, this ditty is making its debut on the interwebs.

Please excuse the cuss words. I was cold, hungry, tired, whiny, and overly bratty.

B-Line, oh B-Line
Oh, how do you suck
B-Line, oh B-Line
Filled with stupid f*cks.

B-Line, oh B-Line
You make my hatred so strong
B-Line, oh B-Line
You make my commute so long.

B-Line, oh B-Line
I want you to f*cking crash
So I can see your ugly green rubble
In the f*cking trash.

B-Line, oh B-Line
You suck so very much
You make me want to kill
To set fires and such.

I wait for your train
In the freezing cold
Then I see you pull up
So creaky and old.

Then I saunter inside
Like a f*cking sardine
B-Line, oh B-Line
Sorry to be mean.

But I want you to burn
In the fires of hell
That would be great
And so f*cking swell.

If you should cease to exist
Then I would die happy
Because, dear B-Line
You are so very crappy.

So from now on
I think I’ll just walk
Since it takes you two hours
To putt down one block.