Jägermeister Memories

Jägermeister Memories Some empty Jägermeister bottles sit atop my fridge, their labels autographed and dated cursively in purple pen. She always signed her liquor bottles when she finished them, a habit I admit was slightly strange at first; I even laughed a bit until I heard her reason why: they'd last as glass mementos of our wild and drunken moments. Now, each label serves as glass-sharp slices straight across my nerves, reminders of the girl I told goodbye when trust and loyalty were both defiled. I know I need to throw them all the way, remove the souvenirs that cause such stress, but just can't bring myself to take them down; no, instead I'd rather sit and drown in misery, pretend she didn't play a game with me the way she did the rest. The truth, at times, is such a sour drink, a tough to swallow dose of agony: my feelings, like the booze that once had filled those empty bottles staring down, were killed with each deceitful deed she did. To think she ever would've gave her heart to me was merely pure imprudence on my part. Yet even though I've realized she's not The One for me, I simply wouldn't mind another night with her and label signed: she's liquor to my alcoholic heart - I can't but help but crave another shot.