It is just shy of afternoon, and already I am dripping in gin. A puddle of Kinsale’s finest pools around my espadrilles with malicious intent. It looks like I peed myself. Wonderful.
I don’t get out much, so this is to be expected. “Can’t take me anywhere,” I laugh, mopping 40-proof rivulets from the front of my dress. I feel like a mole woman released f…
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