Saturday morning iMessages found ourselves without plans or roommates in town and the spontaneity of a quick visit to be too exciting to pass up. And by that evening we're laughing on my walk-in closet floor with wine and all the shoes we want to wear out later. After a 10 pm dinner at the one spot in this town I can never find the words to describe, called Sticky Rice (not a dive, but not exactly a restaurant, featuring great sushi, cheap beer and loud 90's punk), we meet up with some copywriters from my program who funded more than one shot of tequila in exchange for creative analysis of Mad Men and how that's definitely not going to be us in 2 years at all, ever, no way, except maybe for the outfits.
Next thing I know it's noon the next day and we agree life can't go on before brunch.
If I defined every moment of my life these days by its accompanying drink, I'd be judged and scolded and probably even worried about, but I'm telling you, scrambled eggs with truffle oil and goat cheese and your latest spur-of-the-moment partner-in-crime just goes better with a Greyhound. Or two. But just two I swear.
