A Very Special Kind of Drunk

I, as a single-malt scotch drunk, am unlike all other drunks: the tequila drunk, the gin drunk, the beer drunk.

I am, indeed, quite special: 

Rooms don’t spin wildly out of control.

Speech doesn’t fuzzy-slur.

Imagined voices don’t visit me in the night, tap me on the shoulder.

I never stumble about like a stick-figure robot with insufficient RAM.

The gills don’t go green and moldy.

Mine is a decidedly different space-time under the influence of special malt: 

I get hyper-focused . . . 

Ears clutch the distinctive high-C tink of a wine glass three doors down and discern the edges surrounding a breath . . . 

Eyes sense a warm body in inky darkness and diagnose the foul chemistry of the psychopath upon first blush . . . 

I taste the wispy molecules of someone’s exhalation from a hundred meters away and the subtle differences between a drop of Auchentoshan Three Wood and Glenfarclas at 40 . . . 

Fingers go a-tingle from the distant touch of a stranger from yesterday or from the future . . . 

I perceive the shimmering electric field of a beautiful creature in slow delicious motion.

You might say I am cursed with a feverish awareness of . . . everything. 

I read all cycles, especially those in the parafrequencies where the undead communicate with the living world. 

Calling it a curse is too kind.