Last Sunday I schlepped myself home from a friend’s place at 5:41am. My “I’m going to have one drink!” night turned into a runaway — an outcome I rationalized as necessary coping coming off the heels of hands-down the most traumatic dating experience I’ve had in this city. My usual go-to of Jivamukti and Acoustic Covers just wasn’t going to cut it with this one, so I gave myself permission to help my friend clean out the dregs of his liquor cabinet (liquor shelf*), and we danced our way through an 80’s, 90’s and early 2000’s playlists respectively. Following a flash of lucidity in which I was reminded I’d prefer to wake up in my own bed, I congratulated myself for my responsible decision and embarked on the twenty-or-so minute stagger from The West Village to Flatiron
