I like my liver just fine the way she is.
I know that she's not in prime condition anymore, but she's definitely worn-in like a good pair of sneakers, or the perfectly faded jeans. My liver is experienced enough to handle impromptu parties without putting up too much of a fuss the next morning, and she's competent enough to resist protesting when I make a sudden switch from beer to cocktails.
I treat her nice. I give her a taste of the bubbly, and she makes sure I do not get alcohol poisoning by filtering out nasty chemicals and whatnot. I treat her well the next morning by sipping ice-cold water and supplying her with fresh salads, and wholesome food.
We get along fine, but I'm betting that other people have livers that are not so amicable.
I'm sure my bar buddy Steffan has a liver that hates him. His liver is insolent and a bit evil: causing him great pain, and continual throbbing after repeated bouts of scotch on the rocks.
I had a friend, Missy, whose liver was just plain retarded. After 2 beers her liver would cause the most crazy kind of trouble, but quite frequently after 24, would treat her like gold.
I don't think my sister even knows her liver that well. Only on rare occasions is she aware that her liver even exists.
I think the key is to treat your liver the way you want to be treated. I'm proud that my liver can handle the tasks I set forth for her. I treat her nice, and she's nice in return.
It's that pounding headache caused by my brain that's ignoring my attempts at reconcilliation.