A warning that the following will be incredibly disjointed thanks to the many chemicals battling for dominance in my system right now. And I’m so totally just talking about NyQuil and caffeine.

Last week I mentioned that no one from South America had visited my site. That changed on Sunday with a visitor from Columbia. I cannot even begin to express how excited I am about this. I pretty much just stated a wish on here and a few short days later, it was granted. That's the kind of action I like to see. (A pony. A pony!)

Oh, and Colombia? Pretty much synonymous with drug trade. In other words, my kind of country. So thank you for making all of my dreams come true. (And if you had anything to do with the manufacture of something that went down Sunday, thanks for making sure I had no dreams. Or sleep, for that matter.)

You'll recall that last week I also mentioned that I was going to therapy. And was less than thrilled about the whole thing. But since I'm all about education and shit, here are some tips for visiting a therapist (Or: What I learned not to do on Friday)

1. Do not bring up, in any capacity, the therapist/the rapist SNL skit. Definitely do not do the voice.

2. Do not go in reeking of whiskey. Would it kill you to not drink heavily the night before? (Answer: Yes. Yes it would.)

3. Do not try to turn the tables on the therapist by asking them pointed questions about their childhood. Not that this is hard to do (everyone loves talking about themselves, especially people that have to listen to others do it ad nauseum) but rather, it’s really fucking boring to listen to someone else talk about themself.

And for the Do’s:

1. Do try to cover up any tattoos you may have that feature a whiskey bottle with the words “True Love” over it. I mean, good fucking luck getting the therapist to believe that you're not an alcoholic after that.

2. Do visit your local library and thumb through the Physicians Desk Reference and research a few different drugs that sound like a good time. Commit to memory the symptoms that they are used to treat. Recite at therapy session. Enjoy!

And no, I did not learn anything insightful about myself during this session. No, I am not going back. Yes, my mother is now pleased with my level of sanity for another 5 years. No, I did not get any drugs.

(Not from the therapist, anyways.)

And then there was the weekend. The glorious weekend, in which I went out every single night, as well as both Saturday evening and Sunday day. For those of you keeping count, that makes six separate incidences of drinking, each of which I assure you was magical in its own way. I can’t even begin to describe all that went down (mostly because I can’t remember it all), so here’s the condensed version.

Thursday night: I was drinking Jameson on the rocks and shots of Jack. It’s pretty amazing that no one died or was arrested that night. I was, however, woken up by a cop shining a flashlight in my eyes. So yeah, not a whole lot of sleep that night. (And no, it wasn’t because of my hi-jinx that the police were involved. I was surprised by this, too.)

Friday night: Went out with a coworker and our dudes in an attempt to see The Host. Due to a faulty projector or some other such nonsense we had to scrap that plan and decided instead to (care to venture a guess here?) head to a bar. I bought the first round for just over $40, which is why I generally don’t drink in Orange County.

Saturday evening: I’m still not sure how I ended up drunk by 8pm. One second I was running errands downtown, the next I was pulling up to the bar. I probably would have stayed there until last call, staggering off only to pass out in a gutter and split my head open on the curb (pretty good odds that’s the way I’ll go) but I quit that place by 9. A bachelor party had rolled in and the groom-to-be was shouting “I’m getting married!” And that shit is just depressing.

Saturday night: A last minute call from a girlfriend prompted me back out. (You can imagine a lot of arm twisting went down. Her: "What are you doing tonight?" Me: “Getting drunk with you, sucka!")

As per usual there was beer, vodka, and whiskey galore. There were also prescription pills (almost totally legal!), Mexican food, and a thwarted attempt to pocket a bottle of champagne. (What, like you don’t like to steal when you’re drunk?) So yeah, a pretty well rounded night.

Sunday day: I woke up around 11 with the kind of headache (a headache – after my weekend? Yeah, I was surprised, too) that only a beer can cure. (And pizza from the place next door to the bar.) Drinking in a dark, air-conditioned dive at 2pm actually made me look forward to summer, when I can repeat those actions in a desperate attempt to escape the sun.

Sunday night: I have given up trying to stay home on Sunday night. You guys win.

Every single one of my friend either has Mondays off or doesn’t have to go in until the afternoon, whereas I have to be at work at 9 in the morning. (Fuck you guys. Seriously.) Last night we all went out. I think I finally fell asleep around 5:30am.

(Fuck. You. Guys.)

Oh yeah, and I'm on Spring Break now. More on that later.