There comes a time in most evenings, usually after her ninth or tenth cocktail, when K DD’s judgement goes from merely faltering to outright preposterous. It’s somewhere in between the “leaning on the windowsill gazing meaningfully into the rainy evening while sob-singing along to the Annie soundtrack ” portion of the night and the part where she ends up unconscious in a tattered negligee, dangling off the drapes from that one errant claw that never seems to retract right and always gets caught on your sweaters. You know you’re getting close to the danger zone when she turns the lights down low and starts suggestively swiping her margarita salt-coated tongue over her ENTIRE FACE while staring meaningfully into your horrified eyes. I ask you, K DD, what exactly do you think that will accomplish? Time to hang it up, sister.