Hi, My Name's Gin. Have We Met? (…or…) Murf.
Last night was booze-soaked. Who knew!?
Began early at the faux-wood-paneled, white trash Rendez-Vous Tavern for the annual Magazine Street merchants' assoc. xmas fête. As this is my neighborhood, I know all the business owners and employees, so it's nice to go hang out (and drink) with them on this jolly night. Catering is nice too. Mmm! Cookies! And, did you know that sammiches taste 43.8% more delicious when cut on the diagonal? Factor in another 11.8% of deliciousness when the crusts are cut off. Studies don't lie, Bob.
After cavortin' n' flirtin' (and drinkin'), I peddled my big ass down to the Quarter to pop into a bar to stalk someone (and drink). My stalking was unsuccessful as the object of my creepy attentions was not present, so I left (after another drink).
Biked, in only a slightly wobbly manner, to the Sham to meet Pamela (and drink). We get on like two giggly schoolgirls when we're together (drinking). She introduced me to her friend Gin, who comes from Bombay, and sparkles like the Sapphires she is known to wear. Hi, Gin! It's nice to see you again! Don't you look ravishing tonight! May I put you in my mouth and swallow you like the two bit whore that you are?
In truth, I have known Gin before. She used to be my girlfriend, actually, but we have been undergoing a trial separation. Our passion for each other is just a little too very. Our reconnaissance last night was heightened for all the time we've spent apart. Naughty Gin! Someone ought to say something!
Punk Rock Karaoke began, and Gin made me get up and dance like it was going out of fashion. Well, like my dance was going out of fashion, which is technically impossible, since the way I dance has never been in fashion, so fuck you too, Gin! You're about to get a knuckle sammich in the kisser, Gin!
"Where ya goin', Pamela?"
"I'm goin' to see if I can get my friend Gin to come back over!" she said, arriving shortly with two more of those infamous verres d'enfer. "Here!" chirruped Pamela, "have you met my friend Gin?"
"Just shut up and hand me the glass and nobody gets hurt."
At one point, I approached Pamela with the intention of saying, "It has been a lovely night hanging out (and drinking) with you, but I must needs make my swoopy departure."
But the darndest thing happened! What actually came out of my mouth was, "Me want more Gin!"
I woke up around 9a with the room still spinning, trying to piece together the night. I barely remember biking home. What I do remember about that ride was that it suddenly became grossly imperative that I bike only on white lines, which is difficult when cars are parked on the street because one only has about four inches of space before one is biking into a steady line of side mirrors. I looked behind me at all the mirrors. They were, to put it mildly, "akimbo." Jan Brady's Tragic Bike Ride Home. (Oops! I forgot to wear my glasses! BAD Jan!)
I stumbled downstairs around 9a for some water and a fistful of aspirin. Nalcée's diminutive, chirpy grandmother was in the kitchen chattering away. I tried to explain to her, "I'm terribly sorry, my dear, but I am in no condition for any sort of human interaction," but all I got out was a muffled, "Murf."
Something about orange juice. She was offering me orange juice. I smiled, opened the fridge, filled a glass, then promptly dropped the rest of the pitcher on the floor. "FUCKING GOD DAMN SHIT PISS!" I blurted out before I realized there was someone's grandmother watching me. Oh, Jan!
I tried to explain, "I'm terribly sorry I destroyed your orange juice project, Mimanan, but I am a little disoriented at present and must make a hasty retreat to the quiet and sanctity of my boudoir," which, of course, translated to, "Murf," and a graceless clipclump up the stairs.
In retrospect, it's somewhat amazing I managed to find pants before going to the kitchen. I fear any more folly, like unnecessary nudity, would have done the poor dear in. And Miss Manners decrees that it is in poor taste to kill a roommate's loved ones, no matter how inadvertantly.
Began early at the faux-wood-paneled, white trash Rendez-Vous Tavern for the annual Magazine Street merchants' assoc. xmas fête. As this is my neighborhood, I know all the business owners and employees, so it's nice to go hang out (and drink) with them on this jolly night. Catering is nice too. Mmm! Cookies! And, did you know that sammiches taste 43.8% more delicious when cut on the diagonal? Factor in another 11.8% of deliciousness when the crusts are cut off. Studies don't lie, Bob.
After cavortin' n' flirtin' (and drinkin'), I peddled my big ass down to the Quarter to pop into a bar to stalk someone (and drink). My stalking was unsuccessful as the object of my creepy attentions was not present, so I left (after another drink).
Biked, in only a slightly wobbly manner, to the Sham to meet Pamela (and drink). We get on like two giggly schoolgirls when we're together (drinking). She introduced me to her friend Gin, who comes from Bombay, and sparkles like the Sapphires she is known to wear. Hi, Gin! It's nice to see you again! Don't you look ravishing tonight! May I put you in my mouth and swallow you like the two bit whore that you are?
In truth, I have known Gin before. She used to be my girlfriend, actually, but we have been undergoing a trial separation. Our passion for each other is just a little too very. Our reconnaissance last night was heightened for all the time we've spent apart. Naughty Gin! Someone ought to say something!
Punk Rock Karaoke began, and Gin made me get up and dance like it was going out of fashion. Well, like my dance was going out of fashion, which is technically impossible, since the way I dance has never been in fashion, so fuck you too, Gin! You're about to get a knuckle sammich in the kisser, Gin!
"Where ya goin', Pamela?"
"I'm goin' to see if I can get my friend Gin to come back over!" she said, arriving shortly with two more of those infamous verres d'enfer. "Here!" chirruped Pamela, "have you met my friend Gin?"
"Just shut up and hand me the glass and nobody gets hurt."
At one point, I approached Pamela with the intention of saying, "It has been a lovely night hanging out (and drinking) with you, but I must needs make my swoopy departure."
But the darndest thing happened! What actually came out of my mouth was, "Me want more Gin!"
I woke up around 9a with the room still spinning, trying to piece together the night. I barely remember biking home. What I do remember about that ride was that it suddenly became grossly imperative that I bike only on white lines, which is difficult when cars are parked on the street because one only has about four inches of space before one is biking into a steady line of side mirrors. I looked behind me at all the mirrors. They were, to put it mildly, "akimbo." Jan Brady's Tragic Bike Ride Home. (Oops! I forgot to wear my glasses! BAD Jan!)
I stumbled downstairs around 9a for some water and a fistful of aspirin. Nalcée's diminutive, chirpy grandmother was in the kitchen chattering away. I tried to explain to her, "I'm terribly sorry, my dear, but I am in no condition for any sort of human interaction," but all I got out was a muffled, "Murf."
Something about orange juice. She was offering me orange juice. I smiled, opened the fridge, filled a glass, then promptly dropped the rest of the pitcher on the floor. "FUCKING GOD DAMN SHIT PISS!" I blurted out before I realized there was someone's grandmother watching me. Oh, Jan!
I tried to explain, "I'm terribly sorry I destroyed your orange juice project, Mimanan, but I am a little disoriented at present and must make a hasty retreat to the quiet and sanctity of my boudoir," which, of course, translated to, "Murf," and a graceless clipclump up the stairs.
In retrospect, it's somewhat amazing I managed to find pants before going to the kitchen. I fear any more folly, like unnecessary nudity, would have done the poor dear in. And Miss Manners decrees that it is in poor taste to kill a roommate's loved ones, no matter how inadvertantly.