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.