Don't drink and blog, especially while feeling sentimental.

You know when you're younger, and you first discover alcohol, you've got no real standards because you have no experience. So you'll swill anything you can get your hands on. Boone's Farm, Mad Dog 20/20, that cheap Costco beer that just says "Beer".

"Beer".
When only the most generic will do.

But then we get a little older and suddenly the sky's the limit. Even though we're only, like, twenty-three, we start having aspirations of becoming true aficionados.
Maybe we go through a craft brew stage, or an import phase, perhaps we wax philosophical about Yuengling, America's oldest brewery, or the superiority of Argentinian wine.

Not surprisingly, the latter tends to coincide with our "insufferable asshole" stage of existence.

But, for most of us, keeping up such pretense becomes too costly and time-consuming.
Sure, our dalliance with that exotic French label was fun and exciting, but at the end of the day it's just too damn much work. So we drift back toward the safe and familiar. Those comforting brews and vintages that forgo the hype, allowing you to feel comfortable in your own skin. You don't have to pretend to like them for appearances sake...

... not even ironically...

 ...you like them well enough just as they are.

So honey, I guess what I'm trying to say is; you're fun, easy-going, handy, ready at a moment's notice, practical, economical, and you clean up well.


Babe, you're my boxed wine.

And if that's not the most romantic thing you've ever heard, then yuck fou.

Men, keep this analogy in your cranium for the day when you're being yelled at for being drunk at your in-laws.

Ladies, boxed wine, amiright?! No ridiculous corkscrew accessories, and the party's not over after four glasses.