by Katherine Morgan Erik Mclean I close my eyes, a sweaty canned margarita clutched in my right hand, and begin to dance about around my apartment. The MTV Unplugged version of Mariah Carey’s “Emotions” is blaring from my speakers. I’m drunkenly attempting to sing along, missing high note after high note but not giving a single damn about it. The can says “mango margarita” but tastes more like straight tequila with a whisper of mango, so it’s not as sweet as I would normally