Scotch is not my friend. On New Year's, I drank so much of it so quickly, without keeping a real gauge on how much I was drinking or how quickly, that, when midnight hit, I was on the floor of someone's bathroom, begging not to die.
Someone sent me an instant message with too many damn exclamation points and cheery messages of hope, telling me to party like a rock star. I felt like Hendrix.
Yesterday, I finally went on the actual tour of the Margaret Mitchell House, having been an active, constantly visiting member for a year.
In her letters on display, that Peggy Mitchell is damn funny.
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