My girl likes to party all the time.
You know when you hit that moment, usually around 1:30am (3:30am in Paris) when the night just sorta begins to make sense. That everyone is decently drunk, and behaving with relative disorder, and you find yourself on the dance-floor, surrounded by Beautiful People. No thoughts in your mind except the words of a song you barely know. And the need to kick the table over, or at least jump on top of it. Yeah. That time. That time Is Nicotine.