In my regular life I probably have one, maybe two martini’s a year? But because I can’t have, it’s all that I want. I want to sit outside somewhere in a chair that doesn’t hurt with a very cold, very dry martini, with a large order of truffle fries with a big side of dijon mustard, I want to be surrounded by multiple conversations I can ease drop in on, and people to watch. I want there to be music far off but close enough to recognize, cars passing, and trees in the distance, or maybe mountains, I want to be wearing a scarf. Nowhere in this dream is the Truth, which is me five hours after drinking a martini, awake in the middle of the night, shaking and dehydrated and full of regret, counting the seconds until the morning, vowing to never drink again until I drink again.