a eulogy

Friends, drunkards, NYC-ers, lend me your livers; I come to bury the to-go margarita.

It is with great sadness that I spread the news that the to-go margarita has lost its valiant fight against the authorities. After The Hat entered a comatose state a couple years ago, it came back strong and healthy as ever, while that other place down the street (the 'ritas were better there anyway) kept soldiering forward. I thought, perhaps, that the worst was over. But it wasn't to be, for now these two establishments are good for nothing more than mediocre, overly greasy enchiladas and generally unoccupied bathrooms. Valuable neighborhood services, to be sure, but not the same.

Though it's hard to imagine during this upsetting, fragile period when the wounds are still fresh, the hurt will eventually subside to make way for joyful memories. These little frozen miracles provided me with years of treasured good times. There was the first time I got my little sister drunk, the hours spent on the bench across the street from Pianos making fun of people in ill-fitting pants, the strolls up to the dog run in Tompkins Square Park (yes, dogs are even cuter after some tequila,) and that time with Drone when "to go" turned into "to stay" and four plastic cups later I was drunk dialing inappropriate people and puking out the window of a cab. I can't say I remember all my interactions with the to-go margarita, but isn't that how it should be?

To-Go Margarita, you were so delicious and deceptively potent and an important part of my young, retarded life. You will not be forgotten.

A moment of silence, please.