The way to my heart is through a bottle.

Most of my clients are fucking nuts.

By fucking nuts, I mean certifiable. Crazier than me (even though I'm not that crazy.)

Despite the fact that all my nutty Cuban clients are batshit insane, I get along with all of them.

I'm a pretty amiable person. People, generally, really like me. Apparently, my clients do too and they don't mind the fact that it takes me eighty million hours to draft a two sentence enclosure letter to them, because I'm busy checking Stuck on the Palmetto every sixteen seconds, in the hopes that it's not really closed down in reality fo' reeeelz.

But it is.

Anyhoo, I'm what the people call a "drinker."

I drink. Then I suffer. Repeat.

There must be something about me that screams, "BUY ME HOOCH!" because my clients have glommed on to the fact that papa likes to knock 'em down...

The other day my craziest client showed up with a bottle of rum with a pineapple slice in it. Cheesy, but appreciated. Someday that bottle will make good emergency supplies.

And today I got a bottle of...

...

Okay. Midway through blogging that, I found out that Stephen is coming to stay with me next weekend...

Cluck all you want, I'm a glutton for punishment...

Uh...

I'm excited. And now anxious. I have a lot of cleaning to do...

Fuck.