I am the worst blogger ever. And I can live with that.
First of all, I have been super sick. Like the kind of sick where stuff comes out of your face at a faster rate than you can dispose of it. At one point, I thought I might be losing brain matter by way of my right nostril. I am feeling better, aside from a nagging headache and the desire to sleep every day away. After almost an entire week in bed, I spent a good night watching They Might Be Giants at the Freebird. I drank beer and flirted with an inappropriate boy because it seemed like it would be amusing (oh, and it WAS, internet). Honestly, I was just so over being stuck in the house that I just wanted to get out of and feel like a human being. Something about They Might Be Giants makes me feel human. Super-human, even. Party Boy, Rack and I stood close enough to the stage to snap pictures with our phones and almost get spit on. Which was pretty rad. (This may not seem enjoyable, but something about being that close to the stage makes the spit part not really matter. Seriously, Billie Joe Armstrong spit on me once at a Green Day show and I was elated.)
St. Patrick’s Day turned into the debaucherous event that it is supposed to be, complete with the Psycho Rasta, one of the Nude Dudes, and Spliff’s stalker. Fortunately for her, since she wasn’t there with us, her stalker bought me a bunch of shots and followed me around babbling about how he handled things all wrong with her. I narrowly escaped his clutches when he had to use the restroom and I went and hid behind a big banner until I was sure he wouldn’t find me. I was, however, prepared for the level of ridiculousness that was about to ensue and had the forethought to drop my car off at Party Boy’s job and hand over the keys after beer number 2. See? I am responsible! I ended up leaving the festivities after being gifted a new piece of jewelry from Anthony, paying for ONE drink, searching for a lost camera, and then watching one of the only black men at the bar attempt to do an Irish jig and then giving up and doing The Butterfly instead (Ahem…Anthony).
Also, for the second time in my drinking career, I have used the men’s bathroom at The Regal Beagle. First, let me simply say…Fucking. Ew, ya’ll. EW. But the fact of the matter is, I had to pee. I had been searching for a lost camera for well over an hour and the line to the ladies room had become unbearably long and full of bitches who were far girlier than I and would probably spend more time standing in front of the ONE sink so that no one can even get INSIDE, let alone into a stall. Anyway, the last time I had to use the men’s room there, I almost punched some fucker who started yelling at me because I had no other choice (the ladies’ room was broken), the argument ended when I told him to go fuck himself and skipped him in line. I really sort of did think he was going to hit me, so you can see why I was hesitant to try this again. But I did. And mostly, the guys thought it was hilarious. They didn’t attempt to hide their junk from view (which I kind of wish they had…because let’s face it, penises are ugly.) and no one yelled at me for being bold and not caring that I had different equipment. I actually gained a green hat and some swigs of Jamesons from a flask. Yeah. So, I was popular in the men’s room…but not like that, get your heads out of the gutter.
I did, however, end up leaving around 9. You know that you are having a successful holiday if you are drunk enough to have to leave the party before the sun is even completely gone. So, mission accomplished. Hope you all had a lot of green beer and Jamesons whiskey from a flask of a boy from Minnesota. (Thanks, Boy From Minnesota, you made my day a little bit brighter…or…drunker anyway.)