Drinking the Whiskey of Failure

Somebody abandoned a bottle of Jim Beam at our apartment over the summer and since none of my roommates have claimed it for themselves I have christened it the failure whiskey. Simply put, whenever I fail at something I have to drink some failure whiskey to appease the failure Gods.

This rule had already been loosely applied, but it solidified and I formalized it after taking the GREs (Graduate Record Examination). The average math score for students admitted to most applied math graduate programs is typically between 770 and 790 out of a possible 800 points. I got 690 points. This is bad. Obviously, test scores aren't as important as solid letters of recommendation, previous research experience, and connections to people established in the program. I, however, have none of those. No connections, no previous experience, lousy test scores, and probably one good letter of rec, but not the three that are required. People like me need extraordinarily deft footwork to simply talk to somebody beyond the receptionist, and I've found it's never a good idea to bank solely on my ability to be charming.

Another typical situation that calls for failure whiskey is any time I try to convince a girl to hang out with me. Notice that I have completely stopped asking for dates and I justify this with the metaphor that if you can't run a six minute mile, then you should probably put your goal of running a five minute mile on hold until you can reach that intermediate step. In my case, the intermediate step is convincing a girl to do something with me that does not have sexual undertones. Like, not a date, but just hanging out in a group of people, or something like that. Since I absolutely cannot make that happen, then I figure a date is out of the question, you know? If she won't spend time with me in a non-romantic way, then she sure as hell won't spend time with me in a romantic way.

The same analogy can be used to explain that, although it is typically considered prudent to have condoms on hand in case a sexual opportunity presents itself, in my situation it is much more reasonable to have chewing gum on hand in case I find a girl willing to kiss me. And yes, I seriously have been carrying chewing gum around for years in the off chance a girl ever wants to kiss me (but not the same pack!). Or would let me kiss her with minimal protest. So having an advance to a girl rejected is currently the most often cause to crack open the failure whiskey.

Also notice that in keeping with the spirit of failure whiskey, I am not allowed to mix said whiskey with any beverage to lessen the blow. I either have to drink it straight or, more often, on the rocks. Bourbon on the rocks seems like good punishment for failing.

And don't bother emailing me your concerns about my health with some lame rap like, "gee Mike, I think drinking hard alcohol whenever you fail at something is a poor life decision." It's only a poor life decision if you fail at things a lot. Besides, the bottle is almost empty (it was about half full when it was abandoned here) and I don't think it is outrageous in any way that I have drank half a bottle of whiskey over the course of three months. And no, I don't plan on buying myself a new bottle when this one runs out; I'll resume my usual coping routine of asceticism and self-flagellation. (Note to the slow, that is not my usual coping routine.)