My taste for liquor is pretty minor. I've never been a drinker--like, at all--which is kind of strange considering how alcoholism runs in my family. (It practically gallops.) Once in a long while I will have a margarita with dinner, if we're eating out and the mood seizes me, but that does not happen very often.
I cannot drink liquor straight. I can manage a shot of tequila--one--but otherwise, no. Margeritas are my drink of choice. I'll take a tequila sunrise if it's available. Fuzzy navels, I like. A good sangria goes down well.
See a pattern? Sweet and tart drinks, all of 'em, but then the alcohol becomes this volatile counterpoint that I like. There's a kick to it.
...but during grocery shopping yesterday I picked up a 1.75 liter bottle of Cuervo pre-mixed margeritas. A bit beyond my usual measure, which is margerita-flavored wine coolers, but this stuff (it turns out) is 10% alcohol to a wine cooler's 5%. So, after slugging back about 12 oz of the stuff, I'm getting that hypoglycemic feeling. Because I have a mostly empty stomach and I'm a total lightweight when it comes to booze.
Which is another reason I don't drink much: that sensation is a warning signal to me, and not very pleasant as a result.
This one bottle of margeritas will probably last me quite a while. There's a bottle of sangria in the fridge which has been in there since November or December; I've had like two glasses from it.
But! In my early twenties I found out that a single drink can relax you the way nothing else can; I'd be having a bad day and my friend M. would say, "Let's go to a bar!" And at the bar I'd have a drink--one--and then I'd feel better; all the stress would just go away, and stay away. The liquor didn't solve any problems but what it did do was relax me so I could get a good night's sleep, and then approach them from a more relaxed perspective.
In 1996, during my last two weeks of college, I used that effect. I'd be at school for twelve hours, desperately trying to get everything done, and leave only when the campus was closing; I'd get home, eat something, choke down a beer, and go to bed...and the beer slowed everything down so I could sleep, and I'd awake in the morning fresh and ready for another one. More than one beer would have been counterproductive, which is just as well considering that I can't stand the stuff.
Today was a such a day, it almost demands it. So I'll slug back the remaining mouthful, then brush my teeth and go to bed...and tomorrow, I'll be just fine.