Somethings in life are dangerous, like bears, motorcycles, red heads, and whipped cream vodka. With some of these things the danger is obvious: claws, broken bones and the ability to drop panties with one smoldering glance. Whipped cream vodka's danger is more subtle, though, more deceptive.
At first glance it appears innocent. The clear nondescript bottle doesn't hint at it's seductive nature that lives within those glass walls. It is the catholic school girl of vodkas: just one quick twist of the lid and all hell breaks loose.
The smell is the exquisite mystery of nights I don't remember, mixed with the seductive charm of foreign accents. In one word: Trouble.
The taste is the sweet nectar of the gods, and ambrosia of cotton candy rainbows rolling across my tongue and settling in my stomach like the soft touch of an attentive lover.
Perfection.
Now could someone please tell me how the hell I ended up with an Angry Orchard hat and a giant bruise on my knee, cause nectar of the gods of no that shit gave me a quick kick to the place that is responsible for logical thought.
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