"Don't have vodka," Terrence said, as he pushed himself to his feet. "I do have whiskey, though. And beer. Do they mix well with pot? Or wounds?"
His limbs were incredibly lazy, and he probably should have concentrated on walking and talking at the same time. Interesting. He actually probably would have found it hilarious if he'd fallen, but quite the contrary of ending up on the floor, he found himself heading towards the loo before he remembered he'd wanted to go to the kitchen. Right.
Reorienting himself, he headed for the kitchen and opened the fridge. It felt cold on his face, and broke through the warm lazy feeling inside him. "Would it really kill us to keep food at room temperature?" he asked. "Someone should invent food that's constantly cooking itself but never gets overcooked. And never needs to be kept cold."
Making a face, he reached in with both hands without really looking, turning his face away from the cold. And came up with- "I've got pizza," he said, rather pleased with that. "And... mustard. Do those go together?"