Dancing in the Street. Just like Aretha.

Withdrawal from our favorite capital city that doubles as a giant suburb is a real bitch. Since the end of the summer/fall meeting of RBIE's staff last weekend (or the one before?), I have found my only solace in drink. Rather than trying to "label" this new habit as some sort of "addiction", I have chosen to embrace it and its consequences like I would my illegitimate children or a friend of a friend who I talk about behind his back- uncautiously and without remorse. Unfortunately, in between blacking out and pizza at 3 am on a Monday night, I find myself hung over and dealing with the snippets of memory that now make me want to bury my face in my hands and yes, drink. Highlights from the last few nights:

-Spending $72 on God-knows-what because a bartender is cute.

-Asking a refugee from New Orleans for one of his chest hairs.

-Singing Bonnie Raitt's "Let's Give them Something to Talk About", even though the karaoke machine is broken.

-Dialing my friend Annya* at an unfashionably late hour, because I want to tell her I think she's super.

-Thinking all of a sudden that it's a completely genius idea to dance in high heels. In traffic.

Some of these are slightly stretched truths, but they're truth nonetheless. We only inform. You decide.

*She's not my friend anymore.