Wednesday, March 30, 2011

I do not posess the luck of the Irish


I am not Irish. But, like most Americans, I pretend to be every year on March 17th.

This year, I went out with co-workers. Once again, I decided to forego dinner in lieu of Jameson shots and beer. (The results of this are always spectacular.)

By the time we reached bar#3, I was stumbling all over the place and had been flagged as bad news by the bouncer. (So I was told. I don't personally remember.) Here's a visual:

I crashed at a co-workers that night, and was greeted the next morning with your classic hangover symptoms - cotton mouth, throbbing head, churning stomach. Basically, the way you want to feel when you have to go to work for eight hours.

On the drive back into the city, I was rocking my oversized sunglasses, had my jean jacket coverning my face and has passed out in the lap of my co-worker's roommate.

About 20 minutes into the car ride, I knew I wasn't going to be able to hold it together much longer. Plus, I needed to go home and try to make myself presentable for work.

Using every ounce of energy I could muster, I lifted up my head (which felt like it weighed 500 lbs), sat up and tried and figure out where the hell we were. I could tell we were in the city, but that was about all I had.

So, I asked my co-worker if we were near a metro. We weren't. And he had forgotten to drop me off at my apartment.

But really, all I was concerned about was not covering his car with remnants of last night's alcohol and stomach acid. I figured a cab was my best bet anyway, so I said, "I'm getting kinda nauseous and need some fresh air. Plus I need to go home and change. Do you mind letting me out so I can grab a cab?"

Now, at this point, the three other people in the car were convinced I was going to vom any second. I knew I was a good five minutes off from that happening, but I didn't help my cause when I released some form of a hiccup/burp.

Co-worker's roommate yelled "Oh shit!" and scooted as far away from me as he could in a two-door car. Annoyed and tired of feeling like death, I snapped at him, "I'm not three years old. I know when I'm going to puke."

Five seconds later, the light turned red so I hobbled out of the car. Luckily, there was a cab a few cars infront of where I got out because I don't think I had enough brain cells left to figure out which road I should turn down to hail a taxi. Plus, based on my physical appearance, I don't think many cab drivers would have stopped for me.

Once I got inside the cab, I tried to roll down my window and get the fresh air I so desperately needed, but the cab driver squashed those dreams pretty quickly. I'm no expert, but I'm pretty sure the passenger gets to determine the climate of the cab during the ride in which he/she is paying.

Whatever. I got my vengence a minute later when I made him pull over on Constitution Ave. so I could vomitando.

For those of you not familiar with D.C., Constitution Ave. is the road that passes by the White House, Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial - basically all the major landmarks in our nation's capital. It is also one of the most heavily congested roads in the city.

So basically, during morning rush hour, people were having to swurve around the hungover asshole hanging out of a hybrid taxi (that's right - I was in a Prius).

I think my most favorite part about the whole situation was after I finished decorating Constitution Ave., the cab driver asked if I had been out celebrating St. Patrick's Day.

I really wonder what gave it away...

Maybe it was the green beads I was still sporting around my neck. Or it could have been that a combination of whiskey and beer was seeping through my pores and giving people a block away a contact high. But I think the most likely reason was that he had to pull over for me. At 8 am on a Friday morning. In front of the White House.

Don't you worry, I waved to Obama. I'm sure he's thrilled to have such a citizen of my grace and class representing D.C.

Friday, March 11, 2011

Dissecting Guy Code

Guy code: much easier to translate than this jibberish.

Actual gchat message I received the other day from a high school friend who I had a brief fall fling with (and who I haven't really hung out with or spoken too sense):

HS fling: How's life kid? We need to catch up. When are you free these days?


I'm single, have no prospects and I'm looking for someone to hook up with now that spring is on the horizon and I feel the need to spread my seed.

Too bad guy code wasn't offered as a foreign language in high school. I would have aced that class.

Thursday, March 10, 2011

Well, hello there,

Ben Affleck.

I just saw you in The Town last night and holy majoly do you know how to make a girl swoon. Especially your abs in that work out scene. I could watch you do chin ups for hours.

I know that I've always been partial to your bestie, Matt Damon, (It may be because I stumbled across a movie crew once and an assistant told me you weren't as nice as him in person. And you also had that weird fling with JLo that resulted in the horrific Gigli, but since you're aging so well, I'm willing to overlook all those things.) so I'm sorry for neglecting you. And your abs. And your sex lines.

But we could totally work things out.

Boston is one of my favorite cities, too. And I will go to every Red Sox game. I may spend more time imitating David Ortiz when he does he incessant spitting/hand slapping routine every time he approaches the mound, but I promise I'll be enjoying every minute of the game.

You think about it and get back to me.
In the mean time, I'll be keeping The Town on repeat.



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