Slow Roast

I had some chicken in the fridge that was about to go bad.  I didn't have any BBQ, so I hastily put a can of pepsi into the crockpot with the chicken, and then some Greek liqueur Lyle gave me.  It smelled like licorice.  Being a fan of neither liqueur, liquor nor licorice, my actions don't make much sense.  Part of me had become tired of looking at the bottle, while the other part of me thought that there wasn't enough liquid in the pot.  (I'm new to this, but why would you or anyone put chicken stock into a crockpot of chicken--to make the chicken taste more chickeny?  I also didn't use oil because I didn't want to fry it in fat.  Then again, Pepsi is electric deer piss, so yeah.)

What I thought had been a fearless whim turned into an unpalatable impulse.  I tried to cover up the smell, and hopefully the flavor, with bay leaves.  I left the chicken on slow roast and came back twelve hours later.

When I returned the whole house smelled like an old rum and coke.  I was famished, so I took a bite anyway, thinking it wasn't so bad.  It was a little bitter, but whatever.  I piled a couple large spoonfuls of chicken into a tupperware container and left for work.

After about thirty minutes of eating my chicken in my cubicle, I realized how I felt a little warm around the cheeks.  I couldn't concentrate on my work.  I felt light headed and my nose smelled my breath, which was the smell of the chicken, and inherently, the smell of a drunk dude at work.  

I couldn't have been buzzed, could I?

I looked up "slow cooking with alcohol" on Google, only to find an article that read "Five Common Mistakes People Make with Slow-Cooking (sic)."  There it was, info on how only fifteen percent of alcohol would burn in a slow cooked environment.

The rest of the day was really weird.