Remember yesterday when I said that I was going to stay in for one fucking night?

I lied.

Last night I left work at 9, checked my phone, and saw a text message that involved the following things: my friend Jamie, Mexican food, and alcohol.

If you think there's any way that I could turn down a trifecta like that, than you don't know me very well at all.

Though the initial event we were planning to attend was canceled, I knew there was going to be an awesome DJ at the Pike, where there is also an abundance of alcohol, too. (The Pike: site of my short-lived but glorious stint as a bartender. Can you even imagine me bartending? It's probably a really, really good thing it didn't last longer than it did.)

It was supposed to be a laid back, easy night. But when it was Jamie's turn to buy a round (the last of the night, we'd already had a couple pints), the girl came back to the table with a fucking pitcher of beer (uh, it was just the two of us). And it was only proper etiquette that I return the favor and buy the next pitcher.

During the night she got a marriage proposal while I threatened to cut someone, danced, and fed candy canes to a very drunk boy.

So, the usual.

After 9pm tonight I'm off for 5 days. While this would normally translate into seeing how much damage I can do in the first 4, and hurting more and more with each passing day, I'm going to try (TRY) to actually pace myself, seeing as how the New Year (and parties! lots of parties!) is right around the corner.

(But I make no promises.)

Plans are still up in the air, but as long as I have a bottle of champagne and a noisemaker come midnight, I'll be a happy camper.

Cheers!

Happy holidays, lovelies! Hope you all made out like bandits. I sure did! What did I get this year for being such a good girl?

I got dumped!

And got a boyfriend!

And an iPod!

(Loving the new iPod, by the way.)

It all started Christmas Eve, when I arrived at the bar at 9:30.

9:30. As in 4 HOURS away from last call. Do you have any idea how much damage I can do in 4 hours?

Turns out, A LOT.

I met up with a guy I was dating, who decided to get his period and freak the fuck out when I told him that the only commitment he can expect out of me is a fierce commitment to being awesome. (Funny, he didn't care to hear that one.) He then proceeded to LEAVE ME.

In A BAR.

On CHRISTMAS EVE.

(But not before trying to kiss me goodbye.)

Who the fuck does shit like that? I couldn't even get upset, I was too busy trying to pick my jaw up off the ground.

Fast forward to an hour later: two (or three?) glasses of whiskey, a beer or two, and FIVE shots; down the hatch. What can I say? My friends, they know how to take care of me.

One such friend saw fit to take me home and give me more whiskey (good call!) and in turn I thanked him by MAKING HIM MY BOYFRIEND.

Oops.

I don't recall how the conversation came up (though I'm sure it was along the lines of "I'm drunk. I like you. Be mine." or something equally as eloquent) but it did, and holy hell can you just take a second and imagine how fucking awkward the next morning was?

(Actually it wasn't TOO bad. I have come to embrace my insanity, and run with it. Sometimes there is collateral damage. Shit happens. Deal. But still, it was kind of bad. Bad enough that I'd like to not repeat this mistake anytime soon. Or like, EVER, would be good, too.)

And I'm using the term "morning" loosely, by the way. I think I woke up shortly after 11am, a solid 2 hours after I was supposed to be home for breakfast and presents with the family.

I slept through Christmas. What a fucking jerk.

After a night/morning like that I really, really should have stayed in Christmas night. But some old college friends were in town, and I had to take care of that pesky little "boyfriend" thing, too. (Don't get me wrong, I like this guy fine. Which is why I don't want to be with him simply because I do funny, reckless shit when I'm drunk. Oh, and I'm just a tiny bit terrified of relationships, too.)

Somehow, like magic, all of the ladies made it out in force, along with the college friends, and it was one of those great nights that just comes together by accident. Finally, in the wee hours I was able to break it off with the boyfriend, after which he and I both heaved a huge sigh of relief.

And then we made out.

Looking back over the week so far, I'm thinking that perhaps I should take a break from guys for awhile.

So I'm staying in tonight. (Bold move, I know.)

But Thursday night? It's on.

It's important to have good friends.

And very, very important to have good friends who, when you mention that you want to start taking Japanese sword fighting classes (what - everybody needs a hobby) respond with "Oh, you're interested in that? I have a ton of swords and stuff, if you want to come over and play with them".

And then when you get there they open the door, put a beer in your hand, and say "I've got a bunch of drinks left over from the party, help yourself".

I KNOW.

What followed was an evening of alcohol, katanas, and tantos. (Though to my incredible dismay, no throwing stars.)

It's amazing that no one got hurt, though it certainly wasn't for lack of trying on my part. While my reflexes are amazingly quick, cat-like, even, they aren't always necessarily...well, smart.

It was when that point became apparent (you shouldn't try to stop a sword coming at you by reaching out and grabbing it with your bare hand? Good to know!) that my friend switched me over to a bokken, a training sword made of wood.

While I understand his thought process (How many beers has she had? 4? 5?! I should probably remove these sharp metal objects from her unskilled and completely fucking insane hands. Yeah, good idea.) this was in fact more dangerous, as I no longer had to keep up the pretense of being careful.

Yet even when fighting with abandon, I soundly got my ass kicked. It turns out that simply reading Lone Wolf and Cub and watching Zatoichi is not enough to compete with over 20 years of formal martial arts training. Who knew?

Follow up on the drinking contest: while I was willing to admit defeat and forfeit the match since I was too sick/tired to keep my eyes open, my opponent (as well as the bartenders/judges) thought it fair to postpone the match. So I live to drink another day. (Though it may be my last.)

And in what I am sure is a cosmic plan to kill me one way or another before the New Year, in addition to celebrating two different birthdays this weekend and attending the bar party, I just found out that a friend is coming in from out of town.

I do not know this person well, but what I do know tells me that our shared company will likely result in some sort of INJURY or possible DEATH on my part. You know the kind of person with whom, no matter what kind of ridiculous plan they come up with, it somehow sounds like a totally good idea? I have a feeling it will be kind of like that.

I also have a feeling that "I have no laws; I make self-protection my laws" won't really fly with the cops.

But it's worth a shot, no?

I am a little bit sick right now.

I know this surprises all of you, given how health conscious I am. For example, at our work holiday party yesterday I managed to consume pizza, cake, soda, coffee, and candy. After work, I celebrated in my own way with beer, wine, and whiskey. I passed out around 5am, though I awoke an hour later when my body decided to catch fire from the inside out. (Hello, fever! Thanks for stopping by! And for leaving me with this lovely red flush!)

Though I didn't have to get up for work until 11, I only managed about another hour of sleep. Add to the sleep deprivation what I've had so far today: 5 cups of coffee, a diet Coke, DayQuil, and Excedrin. I attempted a handful of M&Ms, too, but the thought of food (even candy) is making me turn green. (Combine this with the occasional flush from the fever and I'm a regular fucking holiday decoration.)

While such a diet is never ideal, today is REALLY not the best day for me to be substituting massive amounts of caffeine for sleep, skipping meals, and loading up on medicine that has already made me lose my balance once today. Because tonight?

DRINKING CONTEST.

I am so, so fucked.

The contest was actually up in the air for a bit because the only other competitor is someone whom I haven't yet thrown up in front of, or tried to hit (with a closed fist, anyways) and I would kind of like to keep it that way.

I thought about backing out because I was afraid of what I might do when shitfaced, and he thought about backing out because he was afraid of what I might do, too.

But since then some fightin' words have gone down, and I am under the impression that the contest is still on.

So, in the event that you don't hear from me after tonight, know that it must be because I died, which likely means I won, and therefore at least had a smile on my lips at the time.

If I somehow manage to survive tonight, I have the HOLY GRAIL of holiday parties to look forward to this weekend: The Bar party.

It involves dinner made up of actual solids (I have no fucking idea why, but I am so not arguing with lobster), plenty of alcohol (of course), and people (the bar staff and friends) that are sick of having to stay at least somewhat sober while serving out-of-control drunken idiots and are determined to make up for that IN ONE NIGHT.

It should be good times.

What with the drinking contest and the bar party, who wants to bet I'll keep up a 3-year tradition of being on death's door step come Christmas?

Around here that's what we call a SURE THING.

Disclaimer of sorts: Lest this post (or, uh, all of my posts) leave you with the impression that I'm an alcoholic, let me remind you people that it is the HOLIDAYS. A time during which I have no school, and even a brief respite form work. My biggest responsibility this week is to remember to put on clothes when I get out of bed (at 3pm) and to not walk around the house naked.

So let a girl have some fun, ok?

That being said, remember: don't drink and drive, drunk text messages are even funnier the next day, Mandarin Stoli is the devil, and I love you all.

Cheers.

First things first:

Dear person who found my site by searching for "postage stamp ass tattoo",

I LOVE YOU.

Hugs & kisses,
Joey

With that super important business out of the way, I can now move on to gushing about how VERY VERY enamored I am with this recent spell of cold, rainy weather.

Whenever I do this I always get at least a few bitchy emails (love you, readers!) that generally sound like this:

"Shut up. 50 degrees is NOT cold. You want to feel cold? Try coming to where I live. There's six inches of snow on the ground, and I have to walk through it every day to get to work. And back! While barefoot."

And I have to give it to you guys; you're right. It does not get THAT cold here in Southern California. (Hear that, ladies? There is no excuse for wearing Uggs. Absolutely none. Ever.) But thanks to the geographical joke that I live where I do, I'll take what I can get. And if I want to call a day when the temperature dips into the high fifties "winter" and the occasional sprinkling/light rain "a storm" THEN I WILL.

Whew.

(Can you tell that I've had soda today? And coffee? And cake? And maybe some candy, because OHDEARGODILOVESUGAR? Fucking holiday treats at work are going to be the death of me.)

Where was I? Oh yes. Loving this weather. So much so that I put together a cold weather play list the other night. It's full of the songs that I like to listen to during dark, wet, night drives, late evening walks to the park with the dog, and when falling asleep with the windows wide open and snuggled under ten pounds of covers.

Enjoy. (Or don't. I don't really give a fuck. Unless you're the "ass tattoo" person. In that case, baby, I really hope you like this.)

Behind the Bars - Elliott Smith
One of my favorite songs. Though I normally go for over the top instrumental arrangements or dramatic sounds, the sparse, very minimalist tone of this song highlights the lyrics, which are PORN FOR MY EARS. It's like one big ode to alcoholic, codependent love: "Drink up baby, stay up all night" (check and check), and later "Drink up with me now and forget all about the pressure of days/Do what I say and I'll make you okay".

Sigh.

Nice.

Up Jumped the Devil - Nick Cave
Drunken piano playing like I thought only Tom Waits could pull off. And I love the line "we got as drunk as a couple of czars". (This is also where the title of this post came from.)

Mount Wroclai - Beirut
I talk about these guys plenty. Which means, click there if you want to read about 'em, because I'm too lazy to type the same things here. (Somebody's blood sugar is crashing...)

Cat Faces - Ugly Casanova
Such a beautiful song, with two sets of lyrics sung over each other. It sounds a bit heartbreaking, particularly the line "you blame me and I'll blame you, and we're both right".

Reality. Such a bitch.

Ramblin' Man - Mark Lanegan & Isobel Campbell
When combined with a rainy night, this revamped version of the old Hank Williams classic makes me want to reach out and cuddle up with someone. (You try hearing a whispery, Scottish female voice say "Got naked daddy just for you" and see if that doesn't do it for you, too.)

Little' Red Riding Hood - The Meteors
There's a theme here: cover songs that turn me on. Originally done by Sam the Sham & the Pharohs, this song is downright sultry. (Another desperately hot sounding song: Dearhearts, by Murder City Devils. But I'm just going to assume that you've all done your homework and have already listened to it about 100 times.)

Blue Tears - The Black Heart Procession
I vividly recall buying the CD (remember those days?) this song is on without ever having heard this band before. (I knew their name, only, as one the band members also performs in Ugly Casanova. I considered that enough of a reason for me to check them out.)

I put this song on in my car while still parked in the store lot, and I knew a few seconds in that I had found one of those bands I would like for a long, long time. And that I would buy pretty much everything they put out. And I do, and I have.

Just as I'm typing this I remembered receiving a late night text message, last night, I think (I was asleep when it came in and barely woke up to see it, hence the not remembering) from my friend Josh, who told me that Black Heart Procession is playing down here soon.

I am so, so there.

At the last show of theirs that I went to, which Josh was at attendance for, I kissed a stranger on the lips while Blue Tears played, because I couldn't think of anything more romantic to do at that exact moment. (Yes, I was drunk.) Much, much later in the night (later enough that I had sobered up - I swear!) I almost committed vehicular manslaughter because people in LA just don't know how to get the fuck out of the way.

I won't be surprised if Josh decided to let me know about the show, yet declines to actually go with me.

There are many, many other songs on the list, but that's all you get. I desperately need to go raid the back room and take care of that little blood sugar problem I mentioned.

Just a moment ago I was sitting at the reference desk, browsing articles online, and I came across the obituary of super smart lady/general badass Diane Middlebrook. What really caught my eye (besides the reference to her as a "salonnière" - how awesome is that?) was the mention of a biography she authored on jazz musician Billy Tipton.

Born Dorothy Lucille Tipton in 1914, she lived as a he (at first only professionally; later in life, entirely) from age 19 until his death in 1989.

You know there are just A TON of fascinating stories, there.

I did a quick check in our catalog to see if we had the book in our library system, and -yay!- we did. The single copy was checked in and sitting on the shelf about 30 feet away from my spot at the desk.

Ah, instant gratification, how I love thee.

So we know what I'll be doing tonight. Drinking wine and reading about a cross-dressing lesbian jazz musician who had a thing for prostitutes and strippers.

Same old, same old.

Another cool job thing: earlier this morning a little girl, about four years old, hugged my legs and told me that I was her best friend. Sure, she was eyeing the stickers I was handing out, but still.

(I totally gave her three.)

To summarize the weekend: I continue to excel at go-karting, table hockey, drinking, and general ass kicking.

I do not excel at arriving on time, sleeping over, returning phone calls, judging distances, not cheating at table hockey, and being nice to people whose feelings have been hurt because they have this slight problem differentiating reality from the way they wish things were.

I also do not excel at writing, today especially, so instead I decided to post these things for you to read; these things where people put words together and it sounds real nice-like.

Poetry, you say?

Interesting.

This first one came up in conversation when I quite foolishly made, and lost, a bet this weekend. (You're shocked at my behavior, aren't you? It's so totally unlike me, I know.) And since I'm all about getting hasty tattoos, the deal was that the loser of the bet would have to get a certain tattoo. In a roundabout way, getting part of this poem (one of my all time favorites) would meet that standard. So, uh, I don't really know what to say about that other than excellent decision making skills, Joey!

We Real Cool by Gwendolyn Brooks

We real cool. We
Left school. We

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

I love this next one because it so perfectly captures the feelings I have towards love: awkwardness, anxiety, distaste, revulsion, pessimistic hopefulness, and so-fucking-help-me unavoidable attraction.

Marriage by Gregory Corso

Should I get married? Should I be good?
Astound the girl next door with my velvet suit and faustus hood?
Don't take her to movies but to cemeteries
tell all about werewolf bathtubs and forked clarinets
then desire her and kiss her and all the preliminaries
and she going just so far and I understanding why
not getting angry saying You must feel! It's beautiful to feel!
Instead take her in my arms lean against an old crooked tombstone
and woo her the entire night the constellations in the sky-

When she introduces me to her parents
back straightened, hair finally combed, strangled by a tie,
should I sit with my knees together on their 3rd degree sofa
and not ask Where's the bathroom?
How else to feel other than I am,
often thinking Flash Gordon soap-
O how terrible it must be for a young man
seated before a family and the family thinking
We never saw him before! He wants our Mary Lou!
After tea and homemade cookies they ask What do you do for a living?

Should I tell them? Would they like me then?
Say All right get married, we're losing a daughter
but we're gaining a son-
And should I then ask Where's the bathroom?

O God, and the wedding! All her family and her friends
and only a handful of mine all scroungy and bearded
just wait to get at the drinks and food-
And the priest! he looking at me as if I masturbated
asking me Do you take this woman for your lawful wedded wife?
And I trembling what to say say Pie Glue!
I kiss the bride all those corny men slapping me on the back
She's all yours, boy! Ha-ha-ha!
And in their eyes you could see some obscene honeymoon going on-
Then all that absurd rice and clanky cans and shoes
Niagara Falls! Hordes of us! Husbands! Wives! Flowers! Chocolates!
All streaming into cozy hotels
All going to do the same thing tonight
The indifferent clerk he knowing what was going to happen
The lobby zombies they knowing what
The whistling elevator man he knowing
Everybody knowing! I'd almost be inclined not to do anything!
Stay up all night! Stare that hotel clerk in the eye!
Screaming: I deny honeymoon! I deny honeymoon!
running rampant into those almost climactic suites
yelling Radio belly! Cat shovel!
O I'd live in Niagara forever! in a dark cave beneath the Falls
I'd sit there the Mad Honeymooner
devising ways to break marriages, a scourge of bigamy
a saint of divorce-

But I should get married I should be good
How nice it'd be to come home to her
and sit by the fireplace and she in the kitchen
aproned young and lovely wanting my baby
and so happy about me she burns the roast beef
and comes crying to me and I get up from my big papa chair
saying Christmas teeth! Radiant brains! Apple deaf!
God what a husband I'd make! Yes, I should get married!
So much to do! Like sneaking into Mr Jones' house late at night
and cover his golf clubs with 1920 Norwegian books
Like hanging a picture of Rimbaud on the lawnmower
like pasting Tannu Tuva postage stamps all over the picket fence
like when Mrs Kindhead comes to collect for the Community Chest
grab her and tell her There are unfavorable omens in the sky!
And when the mayor comes to get my vote tell him
When are you going to stop people killing whales!
And when the milkman comes leave him a note in the bottle
Penguin dust, bring me penguin dust, I want penguin dust-

Yes if I should get married and it's Connecticut and snow
and she gives birth to a child and I am sleepless, worn,
up for nights, head bowed against a quiet window, the past behind me,
finding myself in the most common of situations a trembling man
knowledged with responsibility not twig-smear nor Roman coin soup-
O what would that be like!
Surely I'd give it for a nipple a rubber Tacitus
For a rattle a bag of broken Bach records
Tack Della Francesca all over its crib
Sew the Greek alphabet on its bib
And build for its playpen a roofless Parthenon

No, I doubt I'd be that kind of father
Not rural not snow no quiet window
but hot smelly tight New York City
seven flights up, roaches and rats in the walls
a fat Reichian wife screeching over potatoes Get a job!
And five nose running brats in love with Batman
And the neighbors all toothless and dry haired
like those hag masses of the 18th century
all wanting to come in and watch TV
The landlord wants his rent
Grocery store Blue Cross Gas & Electric Knights of Columbus
impossible to lie back and dream Telephone snow, ghost parking-
No! I should not get married! I should never get married!
But-imagine if I were married to a beautiful sophisticated woman
tall and pale wearing an elegant black dress and long black gloves
holding a cigarette holder in one hand and a highball in the other
and we lived high up in a penthouse with a huge window
from which we could see all of New York and even farther on clearer days
No, can't imagine myself married to that pleasant prison dream-

O but what about love? I forget love
not that I am incapable of love
It's just that I see love as odd as wearing shoes-
I never wanted to marry a girl who was like my mother
And Ingrid Bergman was always impossible
And there's maybe a girl now but she's already married
And I don't like men and-
But there's got to be somebody!
Because what if I'm 60 years old and not married,
all alone in a furnished room with pee stains on my underwear
and everybody else is married! All the universe married but me!

Ah, yet well I know that were a woman possible as I am possible
then marriage would be possible-
Like SHE in her lonely alien gaud waiting her Egyptian lover
so i wait-bereft of 2,000 years and the bath of life.

Wow, you actually read all of that? Cheers to you!

So how awesome is the idea of growing up disillusioned with love and relationships and choosing to live as some demented hermit beneath Niagara Falls? That's pretty much my life plan, right there. (Just add two cats and a bottle of whiskey.)

If you're still up to read some good stuff (um, what the hell are you doing here, then?) here's a favorite short story of mine by the patron saint of drunks, Bukowski. (And I don't care how much of a cliche it has become to like him; like Whitney Houston, I will always love him.)

The Most Beautiful Woman in Town, by Bukowski

(The last line of the story is my favorite.)

Last night:
Big, lovely cupfuls of whiskey
Talk of murder
Bloody nose
Fat lip
The most restful sleep I've had in a long time

Tonight:
More

Tonight marks the start of my first weekend off since the school semester finished. Already there are plans to go the District Lounge (where I had best Manhattan of my life - well, three of them, actually), Go Kart World, and the Long Beach courthouse.

The words "drinking contest" were bandied about last night, so that may happen, too. (Bring it on - I am so, so ready.)

Given those details, none of you should be surprised if you don't hear from me come Monday. (Or Tuesday. Wednesday, even.)

Cheers.

I woke up this morning at 8:24am.

I had to be at work (26 miles away! on the 405! during morning rush hour!) by 9am.

And because I am all kinds of magical (or just really, really don't give a shit about how I look at work) I made it by 9:06. The drive normally takes an hour. I have no idea how I managed to get to work relatively on time, though it may have had something to do with a maneuver called "speeding like a motherfucker". Somehow I also managed to get dressed, do my hair, and even put on makeup (ok, that one I actually did while on the road. And while speeding like a motherfucker. Safety first, kids!). All in just over 40 minutes.

The only possible conclusion is that I'm pretty much a miracle of engineering that performs exceedingly well in adverse conditions. Now, if only I could get the hang of this "regaining consciousness" thing.

I blame my alarm. (Not myself, nor my penchant for staying out until the wee hours. No way could it be that.)

I use my cell phone's alarm, which is great because it is loud and annoying as fuck. But that the phone itself is specifically designed to fit snugly in the palm of my hand is not such a good thing. When I hear the alarm go off in the morning my first thought it that WHATEVER IS MAKING THAT NOISE MUST DIE, and the fact that it is something so small and lightweight means that I am totally capable of KILLING IT. (What, you thought I was kidding about that? I wasn't. Joey + wall: 2; cellphone: 0)

That's why I really, really need this:

Clocky Alarm Clock

It's an alarm clock that RUNS AWAY FROM YOU when you press snooze. It's actually able to JUMP OFF the nightstand.

Shit.

I may have met my match.

I also really, really need these:

Illusion Wine Glasses

It's pretty much my lifelong dream to just drink wine (and ok, beer and whiskey, too) all day every day. With these, at least I can pretend to be when instead I'm actually drinking that god awful "water" thing that my body apparently needs in order to survive.

And yes, I realize that items like these glasses, which display my fondness for drinking, may have a little something to do with the fact that I need an alarm clock that can OUTRUN ME.

And waking up anytime before 3pm makes me think, fuck, I could really go for a glass of wine right now.

It's a vicious cycle.

I suppose it makes sense that being a fan of the drink myself, I missed Repeal Day (celebrating the repeal of Prohibition in the United States) by a single day.

I actually would have missed it altogether, but site reader Ryan sent me an email to clue me in. Only, he thought today was Repeal Day, when in fact a bit of research uncovered that it was yesterday. I'm guessing that Ryan is a fan of the drink, too.

I have plans to go out tonight, and I'm 99% sure they would have involved going out for a drink anyways, but now? Let's go ahead and call it 100%. (Hey, I may have to celebrate it late, but I'm still going to celebrate it!)

Cheers!

And I know what you're thinking: two posts in one day, and BEFORE NOON even? I know! Turns out I kind of love life and get shit done when breakfast consists of two cups of coffee, one cup of black tea, and a Xanax.

...and you don't even want to know what lunch is going to be.

This weekend my friend Nick sent me the following email:

To: Joey
From: Nick
Subject: You as a blond?

That's the only part of this snapshot that seemed unlikely if this was really you. It reminded me of you instantly:

Well.

I don't know what to make of it that this image so clearly screams JOEY!!! to him. (Appropriately, the photo belongs to a series called "Disasters", which can be found here.)

I suppose he knows me well. (I, however, do not have man arms. Just wanted to clear that up. Smeared red lipstick, on occasion? Sure. But not man arms.)

(And let me just point out that the only time in my whole life that I have ever been awoken by the cops happened while I was at Nick's house. While an alcohol- [and quite possibly drug-] fueled party was going on, I was passed out in bed. Yup, when fun and action is going down I look for a dark and quiet place to quietly snuggle by myself. Shit went down while I was unconscious, and the next thing I knew three of Long Beach's finest were shining a flashlight in my eyes and asking me if I felt safe enough to stay.

So, THANKS FOR THAT, Nick.)

And here's a real picture of me as a blond:

See? Classy and elegant, and not thrusting out my hips at all. Not. At. All.

What, after a month of posting every single day you thought I was never coming back? Trust me, NEITHER DID I.

But I missed you guys. Or I just really, really don't want to resume editing my last paper of the semester (coming in at 30 pages) that's due in just a few short hours.

(Yeah, it's probably the latter.)

So, last weekend was pretty interesting. Since I'm all about learning, and growing, and trying new things, I branched out and did something, for the first time, on Sunday.

I got someone's initials tattooed on me.

And he got mine. (First, of course. Because I'll get his initials, but trust him? Never!)

(Still reading? All except for my mother, who passed out cold? Ok, good.)

This was not a BFF thing, or a Romeo & Juliet/until death do us part kind of thing. More like a game of chicken. I fully expected him to back out first. (Oops!)

...and the night went up from there. I proceeded to get drunk at Fern's (thank ladies) which only served to help me uphold the title of BEST TABLE HOCKEY PLAYER EVER. (I only launched the puck off the table once.) Later that night, while engaged in a fight WITH THE PERSON WHOSE INITIALS ARE IN MY SKIN, a shirt was ripped and a glass door was shattered, because with a night that involves matching tattoos, Jamesons on the rocks, and Patron shots, it's pretty much a rule that shit is going to get broken.

(He's just lucky it wasn't his neck.)

You could go ahead and write me a long, bitchy email telling me how stupid it is to get someone's initials tattooed on me, but before you do let me point out that this person's initials are just two letters away from becoming the name of Superman's father. See? You can save yourself the time - I have a totally reliable back up plan!

And yes, I have a good job (with benefits!), a new car (and an old car!), a great family, am ONE class away from graduating with a Masters Degree and a 4.0 GPA, and have seriously pretty hair.

I don't know how any of this happened, either.