I spent one whole week as a cold beer. By the second day, I'll tell you, it didn't matter how warm I'd got, I could not cross Boston Common without having to proceed apace, outlegging the shuffling drunks smacking their lips in my sloshing wake. I would make it to the safety of my home, nearly weeping over my lost ounces spilled in my flight, then proceed to pick the dead bugs and soggy leaves out of my foamy head. Sleeping standing up was not a fruitbowl of fun, either.

Of course, the week after that I spent as Nicole Kidman's vibrator. That was a better week.

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