PO Box 1980

It is the last day of a three-day weekend. Drinking began early Friday afternoon. It's now Monday, 9:45 A.M. I stand in front of a bar/tavern/saloon, sick, hung over, and shaky. I push the door open and, as I stand just inside, letting my eyes get accustomed to the dimly lit interior, I smell the familiar stale booze, cigarette smoke, urine, and Pinesol vainly fighting another battle.