Dear Vodka ,

Listen, we have to talk. You know I love you, but you can't just show up like you did on a Monday night. Some of us have jobs where it's not okay to show up sporting a weekend-worthy hang over on a Tuesday. Do you have any idea how disease-ridden my co-workers think I am when I tell them I'm 'sick' for the fourth time this month You've gotten me through some tough times and given me some interesting stories to tell (Remember that night last winter when I threw my cell phone in a pond? Yeah, me neither.), but you and the company you keep (I'm looking at you Malibu, you tasty Caribbean bitch) are ALL party. I really think someone was looking out for me when the cell phone reception at my house cut out last night, right after you helped me make the decision to call an ex-boo for a midnight chat. At least your partner-in crime, Diet Coke, was there to help me get through the commute this morning. You, on the other hand, were chillin' in your plastic handle and thinking up new ways to systematically destroy my liver, social life, and career.

Whatever, it's nothing a cup of coffee and a few Advil won't cure.

Love you forever you cheap/delightful tramp,
Clare