When I finish a bottle, I take what I call a “man down” photo. Typically, I’ll lay the bottle on its side, the cork removed but visible, and I’ll include a glass containing the edition’s final pour. It’s also not uncommon for me to add additional staging before typing a quick sentence or two and posting it on social media. A few examples of this practice are included below.

As you can see, I take time with this. It’s because I’m someone who cares. Unfortunately, there are times when particular onlookers might think the phrase “someone who cares” is synonymous with “an alcoholic.” This is especially true when I focus my one-dram-before-bed routine on the editions I keep in a particular cabinet. It’s a breakfront containing the near-empties I’ve had sitting around for a few years. When I’m drinking from that gathering several nights in a row, a new “man down” post will likely appear more frequently, sometimes daily. People see this and assume I’m finishing off an entire bottle every day.

In a way, I think the misconception is funny, if only because, after a few days, the tenor of the posts’ comments begins to evolve. I may even get a private message or two asking if I’ve ever thought about seeking help. My reply is almost always the same.

“No, I don’t need help. I can do this all on my own.”

I know what they’re thinking, and yet, I also know what’s actually happening. Strangely, I appreciate the optical dissonance, which is why I may even misspell a word or two in my reply. Besides, there’s nothing wrong with pulling on someone’s chain on occasion.

That said, there’s one whiskey—the Roe & Co Blended Irish whiskey—I’m concerned won’t get a “man down” image or any alcoholic concern from observing friends. Well, maybe it will. I just don’t know. It’s disinteresting, and as such, I’m worried I won’t get to it often enough for it to graduate to the near-empties cabinet. All the others in the cabinet have taken a few years. This one has decades written all over it.

For one, its nose is dankly grassy. There are hints of honey and malt, but they’re incredibly slight. One sniff takes them all away, leaving almost nothing behind. A sip, while not distinctly unpleasant, is nearly too sweet and, in some ways, exceptionally metallic. I can taste the still. I shouldn’t be able to do that.

The finish is sharp, leaving a sour aftertaste of bitter fruit and burnt cinnamon. Thankfully, it’s a relatively swift conclusion.

Like I said, maybe I’ll get around to finishing this one before I die, and perhaps I won’t. In the end, while this whiskey may never make it to the near-empties cabinet, it’s certainly made it into the “questionable life choices” cabinet of my mind, and learning from one’s mistakes is always a win in its own right.