A whiskey bottle's destiny is to empty itself, either over a fairly drawn out amount of time, giving the posessor several nights of having a pleasant drink, or in a rushed, alcoholic endeavor, to allow one or more persons to fully establish themselves as crocked.

A bottle that comes closer to its final destiny, were it to feel pride, should be glad to know that it is serving its purpose, as it delivers it's contents to people who would be apt to become inebriated. Therefore, with a touch, and a rough one at that, I could tip the bottle from its resting place, delivering its contents into a glass, or series of glasses, and, through the concoction of mixed beverages, floor my floormates. The bottle would be able to be emptied knowing that it's purpose had been served. As it made its way to being displayed with all the other emptied bottles in someone's room, or, as in my case, to its further use in a recycling bin, it would know the pleasure of having done all that it could to influence the world, for better or worse.