Because my tab at the Phoenix is now CLOSED. I swear, I haven’t gotten such stinkeye from a bartender since I was 20 years old at a cigar bar in Syracuse, caught with a fake ID and unceremoniously tossed out on my ass.
That night, I self-medicated with the better part of a bottle of SKYY, which came up in miserable, sobbing heaves over the course of the ensuing 48 hours. Older and wiser now, I’ve gone ahead and gotten myself some lovely pink champagne.
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