If you're not going to spend Cinco de Mayo on Alma's amazing roof deck sipping blood orange margaritas or enjoying one of the incredible tequila flights at Elote, we have some slightly more questionable, but definitely more economical options to celebrate your (doubtful) Mexican heritage.

I do my best to make the rounds at as many NYC bars as I possibly can, and over the course of my travels, I plan on reporting back to you.  So, without further ado, here's what my Saturday night was like:

I was fourteen and fat. I had a handful of friends, and they were the best friends in the world.

My twin sister, Rebecca, went to an all girls prep school, which was a great advantage to me. She knew a plethora of girls that never saw boys, and if they did, they still were not sure what to do or say around them. It worked out beautifully. In some ways, it still does.

Hiding in the woods covered in sweat and vomit was when I began to hate drinking. The school security guard jogged up the trail behind my high school, yelling for me to come out. Like some bad thrasher movie, I drunkenly knocked over a branch and his head snapped in my direction. Barely eighteen, with 2 weeks left of my senior year, I did what any not so juvenile delinquent would do, I ran.