I’m back, and I’m alive. (There was cause for concern for a day or two, there.) Tuesday was my first day back at work after a week off for Spring Break, and I’ve been slowly reacquainting myself to normal life (not going to bed at 6am, not drinking pint glasses of whiskey) since then.

I originally thought taking time off for Spring Break (yes, it’s capitalized. It’s like a national holiday for me) would allow me to sleep in, get in a few good nights out with friends, and take care of a lot of things that I needed to get done. To see how well this worked out, let’s look at the things that I was supposed to get done during Spring Break:

• Make (and go) to two doctor appointments
  
• Get a new cell phone (pink is so last year)
  
• Fix broken taillight (driving home from the bars at 2am is asking for it enough on its own)
  
• Get ahead on homework
  
• Begin research for final paper

And now, things that I actually did during Spring Break:

• Went to Vegas (for a whole 4 hours)
  
• Caught up with the Tyra show
  
• Did some seriously impressive drinking (until the last night)
  
• Puked (the last night)

So yeah, I got absolutely nothing done that I originally intended. No big surprise there. I was surprised, however, at committing a Spring Break first. An (until now) lifelong first, even. In addition to puking (the last night – Sunday) from a whole 4 drinks (what the fuck?!?) I also puked blood the next day.

…

I don’t even know what to say about that. Job well done, I suppose.

After some first class drinking sessions all week long (seriously, I could turn pro I do this shit so well) I suppose my body decided to fight back with a huge “fuck you” that resulted up in me painting the bathroom floor orange. (Which reminds me, thanks so much for the red headed slut shots, Lauren - cause nothing goes with the tequila and whiskey I was drinking like Jager!)

I was laid up the entire next day/evening, alternating between lying down in the shower and sleeping fitfully in bed. I didn’t feel any better until I finally got sick later that night. After that I choked down some sleeping pills (my stomach loves me), crashed for a good 10 hours, and was good as new (it's what I like to believe) the next day.

So to everyone that I inflicted my super-drunk self on at any point during Sunday night, I’m sorry. And you’re welcome. Because although I can't remember about 82% of that night, I'm pretty sure it was pure fucking magic.