It was more than just a drinking problem; it was a drinking-and-writing-letters problem, and I had it. Bad. Not that there’s anything wrong with either drinking or writing letters, necessarily, but I personally found that combining the two could potentially lead to some awkward long-distance relationships, unnecessary confessions, and a lot of really dreadfully embarrassing misspellings.
(Not to mention those messy little splotches where the condensation from one’s margarita drips onto one’s stationery, requiring one to circle the splotch and indicate, with a pointed arrow, “Margarita spill!” As if that excused anything. As if that didn’t just make everything worse.)
As these things typically go, I can honestly say I don’t remember terribly much about the letters I wrote while drinking mostly free margaritas at the first restaurant-bar at which I’d ever become a regular, but I will never forget the place, though it’s long since been absorbed and dissolved into…
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