Rome... The city that slaughters livers... also the Eternal City

I was recently introduced to this phenomenal piece of literature that pretty much sums up my life right now. I wish I could take credit for the authorship, but I must give credit where credit is due, so thank you PJ O'Rourke:

Now, if you drink a lot, and I do, it's hard to date the exact nascence of a bender. When is it that ordinary heavy drinking leaves off and a true bust, a tear, a bat, a jag begins? There's drinking in the morning... that's one sign, of course. Unless it's beer: there's nothing more delicious with sausages and eggs than beer. And a medicinal shot or two doesn't count. And if it's getting on to eleven o'clock... and in those days I was never awake before... it's nearly lunchtime, and you can hardly say you're launched on a hoolihan with a drink or three before midday meal. Then there's the shakes and a bleary thirst, but those signify alchoholism, which is but the sickly repetitious cousin of a real rampaging toot. No, I think, at least with me, I'm on a bender when I start carrying a drink, a real drink with ice cubes in a cocktail glass, with me wherever I go: to the grocery store, for instance, or the the bank, or into the shower, which is a better place than you might think, if you pour your Scotch strong and with plenty of ice. A little warm water never hurt a good blend like Chivas or Dewar's, but a single malt should only be had on the toilet or at the sink.