Come on down to Margaritaville.
Come on down to me. Oof, wait, that did not sound right. Let me try again: Come on down to a place where I will be drinking, thus establishing that location as Margaritaville, because my middle name is Margarita, and I will be situated in a community of booze, otherwise known as a bar.
I don’t know where you are in the world, but here in New York it’s a pretty grody Friday—it’s muggy, and rainy, and gray, and wet. It’s the kind of Friday where you wake up and just kinda stare out the window for ten minutes, thinking about dreading the act of thinking, and how it will need to happen at some point today whether you’d like it to or not.
Now, I don’t condone or suggest alcohol as a remedy for problems, but . . . sometimes . . . yes. Yes, today a liquor-infused beverage will magically cure my emotional ailments like nothing else will. Especially after the week we’ve collectively had as a nation. I don’t know if you watched the debate on Wednesday, but Gah. Damn. Give me all the tequila. Even the bottles with worms in them.
Vintage Sandra Rubel silk-velvet top; Zara faux leather skirt, glitter socks, and earrings; Topshop clogs; Vintage belt.