tequila, my tequila Among 102 alcohols, I surrender only to tequila—just for the precise moment it cracks me open. Unlike beer—its bitter roast a weighted blanket, unlike rum—its caramelized wood a slow-burning hearth—tequila is a struck match. Unlike wine—its acid-bright intellect, unlike whiskey—its smoky, solitary depth—tequila is a spark to gasoline. Unlike gin—its visible division between restraint and clarity—tequila is the hand that slips the leash. C₆H₁₀O₅ (a crude approximation of chaos). It hits me with a theorem: 1. GABA gates open: dopamine floods. 2. TRPV1 receptors calls, adrenaline answers. 3. Citrus acid in OG sharpens sensory alertness; ethanol burns a transient brand down the throat. Thank you, tequila sunset, for this: reckless honesty. You are so intriguing — top-heavy with orange, undercut by a thin crimson slick of grenadine. Much like the apocalypse: gilded and inevitable. The red sinks, slow as nostalgia, as suppressed hunger, as the last flare of daylight before the dark. You are the sunset. You have been the sunset. And when the brilliance fades, the night is just chemistry: dehydration, regret, the hollow where the dopamine was. Look at the horizon. It’s already happening.