Publisher's Synopsis
Flammable liquids melt parties with incendiary precision, but only if not lit but consumed. Brain cells catch fire, and we're lucky we don't combust like a Dickens character, mid-walk through the shop, God giving and taking away in an instant. Poof, the bomb goes poof, it's silently but deadly turning men into dishonest boys waiting for liquid courage before telling her feelings of love. Shakespeare said-or was it Sigmund Freud: the alcoholic is someone who cannot express love. Hmm, the dream of life not started by I; it was a spontaneous movement between Dad, alcohol, marriage and Mom-the angels connected egg to sperm and Poof, the bomb went poof, and we arrive in God's time-to the beat of someone else's drum and rhyme.
