I hate Tequila and I hate Margaritas (the drinks), having said that, I like the ones here, Strong as hell and made with Jimador. My friend and I were the only Latin Americans at the "club" that night, well us and the piñatas
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Well, if I wanted this sort of treatment I would go back to the DMV. "You won't have Nixon to kick around anymore!" I said aloud, no sirree. I squeezed through everyone and popped back out into the street. Behind me, the bar glowed like the belly of a firefly, another beautiful creature that shines brightly for one night and then expires, unaware.
I felt my BlackBerry in my pocket alerting me to a message. "Hey! Sorry!! Need to reschedule! LOVE you!!!"
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3286 22nd St. (at Valencia). 647-2732.
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I could be passive-aggressive and not text back until the next day, or I could be magnanimous and reply right away that everything was okay and cool. Strangely, the latter was how I was actually feeling as I boarded BART. I was tired but content, happy to be heading home. "No prob," I wrote back, hulking down in my seat and pulling my hoodie over my eyes.
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