Tequila! My Old Foe!

"I mean, this is the final proof that I'm in my late twenties, not my earlier twenties," I said over a glass of water at Bus Stop this morning. "I went out to Latin American Club with Ash last night, we had two margaritas and got destroyed. The room was spinning went I went to bed, I didn't sleep more than four hours, I'm still hungover!"

"Oh, Latin American Club!" Scott said, sipping his Bloody Mary. "Well, that explains it. The margaritas there are like 3-4 drinks each. It's a great deal actually, four drinks for $8."

I stared wide-eyed at him for a moment, then sunk back into the booth in relief.

"Thank god! I thought I was really losing it."

"No man, those are some strong drinks," he nodded. "Next time you go to Latin American Club, I'll join you. We'll do it right."

I thought about the room spinning, about how ashamed I'd been to get wiped out by two drinks. How the first clue was Ash slurring her words when we got into the cab. How the next clue was the alpine boulders tumbling around in my skull when I woke up.

"I'm never going there again!"