Free Wine

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I watch as red wine splashes down the front of my white button-up shirt.  For some reason I giggle maniacally. Freedom, I guess.  Then I remember that red wine will never come out and I no longer own a work appropriate shirt.

I work at the restaurant in 7 hours, so I strip frantically and scrub maniacally.  My shirt is definitely ruined.

Now I cry. I need my job, but not enough to buy an extra shirt.

That’s freedom, I laugh, as I open a second bottle of red wine stolen from my ex-boss.

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