Gin and tonic. Ice and slice please. The only thing that kept me sane in Oxford.
Absolut Citron and Tonic, ice, twist of lime.
Smooth.
Glass of bourbon, straight up.
(preferably Knob Creek or Evan Williams)
A plastic tumber half-full (empty) of tepid tap water.
Root beer. Spicy and sweet with a good head.
Cosmopolitan!
Dry gin martini.
Just like my dry wit, you get enough, and you’ll be flat on your ass. And loving it.
You called? 
And yes, duh. We all know what drink I am, don’t we? 
Hey, wow, people are answering this again…
A perfectly chilled pint of Kronenbourg 1664
Cube Libre with a bunch of lime and anejo rum
Tasty, tart, sweet and sneaky (cause I never know how drunk I am on these until I stand up!)
I don’t know what kind of drink I am, but I’m served in one of those 7UP glasses from the 70’s that’s skinny on top and fat on the bottom.
Faygo’s Red Pop, definitely. We’re both odd, (it tastes red, whatever that means–clearly, the soda of weirdos), both rarely seen outside of the Ohio land area due to circumstances beyond our control, and both go down in quick bursts that feel painfully good. (This might be a little more true of the pop).
In contrast, however, I have limbs and a vagina, I’m not fizzy, confined to a can or sold in family groups of twelve, and I also don’t have a plastic band around my waist that birds can get caught in. But what of that? Red pop all the way.