My name is Brad and today marks a month since my last beer. When people hear this I get smiles and words of encouragement but NO GODDAMN SYMPATHY.
Two more days of antibiotics and then if I can get through a day with all snot honks being below the maximum capacity of your average Kleenex I am going to revisit the Pacific Northwest by cracking the biggest IPA I can lay my hands on. (Yes, by those calculations it will be Tuesday morning.)
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The woman with the fake tan stepped into my office, sat across from my desk and lit a cigarette.
At least, she would, sometime in the next 20 minutes. Smelling the future has advantages, but precision isn’t one of them.