It is a melancholic Weekend Open Bar, friends. For while I open the doors to the Tavern with arms-spread welcomingly, the very cracking of the doorframe signals doom. Or namely, it signals the dusk of my Spring Break. A sad time. A bad time. Every moment a march towards the return to hour-and-a-half commute and pants. And pants! Oh, I haven’t worn a pair of real pants since last Saturday. My ever burgeoning waistline not tortured by restriction, nay, but instead comforted by the glory of an elastic waist.

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