June
The music’s loud. Stupid loud. It's vibrating-my-spleen kind of loud.
Yes everyone. I'm in the club.
That’s where I decided to seek solace tonight.
Because apparently, tequila and noise are the only things strong enough to shut my brain up.
The wet dreams are getting too real. And the messed-up part?
I like them.
That’s the problem.
So here I am. Touching grass, which, in my dictionary, means three shots in and halfway to forgetting my name.
What about work tomorrow? You might ask.
Good news: Mr. Grande is on some "executive business leave" or whatever vague rich-man mystery that means.
Translation: no early morning, no coffee runs, no death stares from my emotionally constipated CEO.
So yeah. Good timing.
If I’m lucky, I’ll drown deep enough in tequila to maybe — just ma
