It Can't Be 1:50 am.

Ok. Negronis are the perfect late night cocktail. They're bitter, yet complex, and they make you look much more sophisticated than you actually are, particularly if that day you have been drinking alcohol in some form or another for 8 hours already, and you have promised everyone you've met some form of succor when they visit you in America. Negronis give a credibility that, as I write this, I realize might just be a, um... illusion. All I know is that my friend, Max, who owns the bar we just shut down and who is the chief mixologist there, seemed to know the minute I demurred on the Panamera, the cocktail du jour, that I wasn't going to get mindlessly shit faced in his bar tonight, I was going to get very intentionally, mindfully, and definitively drunk in his bar tonight, and that there is some dignity in following through on that with such precision. When we kissed our parents goodnight tonight from the bar at the Post Faber, our hotel, and after we'd spent two hours drinking with them and with Harry at Harry's Bar, on Harry, and then were kidnapped by Allen and Janice, the mayor and First Lady of Worthington, we kissed their cheeks and said, "we're going to regret this."  We all knew enough already to know that in the hands of Allen and Janice we were going to see the sweet hours of dawn through red, itchy eyes and heads woven with the webs of poisoned spiders.  We were right, but we haven't slept long enough yet to really know it. Pray for us. 

Christ - I just up snorted my toothpaste. It's bad when you laugh at your own jokes. 

OXOXO