It's past midnight and you're all pumpkins!
It's true. I'm the fairy godmother of drunk people. I'd say 'patron saint' but I'm neither Catholic nor a drunkard.
I shepherd the lost little lambs home from the bars and night clubs, and every Friday night at least 3 men fall desperately in love with me for the span of a drunken bus ride. It's sort of a pity really, seeing as how they won't remember me, and will probably do the same again next week.
I do the best I can, you know, but they make it so hard. For instance, I tell two drunk boys that the train in the station is "definitely NOT their train." Do they listen? No, they run over there and jump aboard anyway. I wonder when they discovered that they went to Parker instead of Littleton?
Or that sweet little gnomely blonde girl with the dreadlocks. She said she blacked out and woke up in the station, and she kept wanting to go to 1100 East Lincoln, despite the fact that I explained 6 times that Lincoln runs north-south.
But I do what I can. I wish it paid better. Those sparkly tiaras don't buy themselves.