I came late to the drinking party and by drinking party I mean I didn’t really drink until after I was 30. A douchebag broke my heart (and I was stupid and let him break my heart) and the only thing that seemed to help was shot after shot of tequila and by help I mean drinking until everything was obliterated. My friend’s husband had to take away the tequila bottle and I think I was still a little drunk 12 hours later when I went grocery shopping and thought I was going to toss my cookies in the soup aisle. Short story long, I still have to work with the douchebag but he has a hump, is missing part of a finger and a pectoral muscle and likes to call himself a doctor because he has a Ph.D. in music which I’m sure has come in very handy in his life.
But to this day the thought of tequila and the douchebag’s face causes me to throw up a little in my mouth.