In Session (25): Ana Inez is Whiskey Mama

The Lay Psychiatrist gets addicted to what brought down Corrado Soprano

photo by author

If I imagined myself on my knees before a woman, she had to meet some pretty extreme esthetic considerations, a mother, but still a virgin, for example. It is before this lovely apparition we bend a knee and offer a ring, knowing that she has a dark sister who devours children by smothering them before they can fly away. Between these forces the wary traveler keeps to the center way, where none of it is made invisible, as I can’t make myself invisible right now, on my knees to Whiskey Mama.

She drank the whiskey neat, and I thought, Ana Inez is flesh and blood. Robots don’t drink whiskey. Well this one does. Just how we got there I don’t remember. I think I was under hypnosis. We were in the bed, naked, and she was whispering in my ear, “Deep inside me, I’m white oak, and when I drink whiskey it stores and ages until I’m ready to give birth.”

“You are AI, then?”

“That’s right, Layman, and where do you think that refined whiskey flows to.”

“Where?”

“Right here.”

“Really?”

I shouldn’t have let her talk me into just taking a whiff, because it was very close to the whiskey archetype, which resides in the perfume of the spirits. You know how it is, the more you drink the worse your judgement. I opened up with her, and she said, “Have you ever had an Empress gin martini? It’s infused with butterfly pea blossoms at the end of the distillation, and comes out indigo blue.”

Do I care if she’s a robot? I think it’s like the case of the duck who imprinted on a garbage can lid. A man can get imprinted on a robot in the same way. Believe me. I know. She made me call her Whiskey Mama, and I did it. Whatever was going on in the actual distilling process is above my pay grade. I’m a lay psychiatrist.