Nothing heals me like going dancing with the girls.
Last night was Cookie’s birthday and we were determined to celebrate it with a (mostly) girls’ night out.
Bad music + alcohol = good fun.
The bad news is that if I actually have mono (and I’m beginning to doubt it), my spleen will surely rupture today from all the Jack & Cokes and Coronas I ingested last night. Oh, and the Alize, whatever the hell that is. Someone gave me a glass of it and I drank it.
So. I argued briefly with a cute guy about which of us should use the men’s bathroom first, as the ladies’ room was occupied. I was actually doing the pee-pee dance, I think, when I framed the door sign with my hands and said, “Look. It says “Men” right here and you are, in fact, a man, so it’s not fair of me to cut in front of you.” Then he pointed out that he didn’t have to go as badly as I did so I should go first. And I did.
And on my way back down to the dance floor, I slipped and fell down the stairs. Surely the crowds and puddles of booze on the floor were to blame, and my inebriation didn’t have a single thing to do with it. I didn’t actually fall on my ass, which was good. I did, however, kind of slip and slide down several stairs and broke my fall at the bottom when my ribs caught on the banister.
Ow. And that did leave a mark.
So all these guys were standing there like “Whoa!” as it all happened. I straightened up, lifted one arm in victory, and said, “I’m good!” before getting back to the important business of shaking my booty to Bon Jovi.
– dancing and drinking
– oh, there were midgets! seriously!
– this bar played that fucking song “God Bless the USA,” what kind of club music is that?
– Tracy Morgan lookalike grinding on our asses
– weird bodybuilder-looking dude pestering us with weirdness
– stumbling out to the parking lot with our driving friends, who were VERY patient with us
– collectively drunk-dialing just about everyone we know
– getting home and going back out to someone’s apartment which was allegedly “full of people” (if by full of people you mean the people who live there, plus 2)
– the passout stage
I woke up at the crack of dawn this morning quite possibly still a little drunk, with a desperate need to pee. In this apartment, all the bathrooms were inside people’s rooms. I tiptoe down the hallway, trying doors. All locked. The situation gets desperate. I look out the windows, thinking that maybe if there’s a 7-11 or something I can slip out and go pee there. I see nothing. I am literally whimpering as I hobble over to the kitchen sink and judge whether I can make it work. I pull some paper towels from the roll and stuff them in my pockets, just in case. I go back to the couch and sit there all squirmy-like until someone opens his door and pokes his head out and is all friendly like “hi, how did you sleep?” at which point I practically tackle him on my way to use his bathroom. There was a girl in his bed. Oops. Hi. I pee for like 12 minutes straight. When I come out, Cookie is awake.
My car is elsewhere and we don’t want to wake anyone up to drive us, so we decide to walk. It’s like 2 miles. Cookie wisely decides to leave her bottle of Jamaican rum at the apartment, since walking down the street at 8 in the morning with a bottle of rum seems just too weird. As it is, we keep passing old people out walking and jogging and they all say “good morning” and we’re tottering down the street in our bar clothes, looking all Walk-of-Shame except there really isn’t any shame in it at all; we just didn’t want to impose on anyone.
45 minutes or so later, we get to my car. I take Cookie to her car and we go our separate ways. I stop and get some sweet, sweet Burger King, come home, crash like it’s my job.
Overall? Fabulous evening. I had a great time, hung out with cool people, and it really helped to get my mind off things.
Oh, and I also went bowling yesterday afternoon. I’m like really good at it now, so if anyone wants to go bowling I’m down with that.