Historians and scholars of I Thought They Said Rum will recall that before Stevie, I lived in this same apartment with a guy I found on Craigslist. Amongst his friends, he was the most stereotypical skinny gay white boy you've ever met (slugging girly cocktails, wearing pink briefs, constantly blasting bad trance music, and yes, calling everyone bitch), yet around me he was painfully shy and awkward. I've accepted that I won't click with everyone I meet in life, and this was one of those occasions.
He had a modest collection of wine bottles prominently displayed in the kitchen, the centerfold of which was a bottle with the singular word "bitch" on the front.
Guess what Stevie found at the liquor store today.
(He also left behind two pint glasses labeled "slut" and "hooker" when he moved out, prompting interesting conversations with uninitiated guests that ask for drinks. My ex-rommate is the gift that keeps on giving.)
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