But bartenders don't know how to make a sidecar anymore.
Is this what I'm supposed
to do now?
Identities, plastic summaries, explored at the door.
Those little clubs without rules, more like
third grade
than we care to admit.
Smooth, fruity lightning sprints through veins, echoes in eye sockets. All pulses.
Sex and sports and
Smirnoff, culture in cocktails accessible
now.
A bucket of beer and growing older never made us feel so young, so innocent.
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