Why My Liver Hurts

This week could have been a sentimental, Garden State-y experience: After moving away, young man returns to his hometown and undergoes life-altering changes as he reconnects with old friends and attempts to find himself. Make-out session with Natalie Portman optional.

But, instead of this:



It's been more like this:



And now my liver hurts.

Not like in college, when you'd have six Zimas on a Saturday night with your fraternity buddies and then the next morning you'd say, "Ow, my liver hurts!" then laugh hysterically as you scrubbed Delta Omega trying to remove all traces of GHB.

It feels kind of like maybe you pulled a muscle along your rib cage or something, but it doesn't hurt when you move so it's got to be something inside you. I'm not sure who to hold responsible (since I've eliminated my complete inability to stand up to peer pressure) so here's a police line-up of the accused.

From the land of sky-blue waters:


The Beer. Refreshing. is incorrect in two ways:
First, those are both incomplete sentences, lacking a subject and predicate. Second, Hamm's is about as refreshing as a ground beef milkshake.

Next candidate:


Obviously, you can tell we've been spending a little too much time at the transient end of the beer aisle. An partial transcript of the conversation had at the register whenever there is an attempted purchase of Oly follows:

Grocery store clerk: Sir, you don't smell like piss.
Olympia purchaser: Nope.
Grocery store clerk: You're going to have to select another beer. This one is only for those that smell like piss.

Third:
MYSTERY WHISKEY

At some point, as if conjured by spirits of bars past, shots of brown liquor appeared in front of me. They were consumed.

Last (and hell, certainly not least):



Ah yes, now I remember. We have a winner.