It was destined to happen. A person simply can’t imbibe this much alcohol in a two week period and not suffer some ill effects. Scalper’s in Lyndhurst was the site of this particular massacre and a rousing Open Mic night with Brent Kirby (on whom I believe I might have a slight crush cuz he’s such an amazing songwriter). The vodka was overflowing and it’s a damned miracle neither of us took a spill down the substantial stairs on our many trips to the ladies’ room.

I think we drunk dialed everyone in Kimmie’s phone while my address book was mercifully spared due to a dead battery. (The fact my cell phone died is an aberration in itself; I tend to be anal-retentive about charging that sucker) I executed three, count ’em THREE, U-turns within three minutes of entering the car, and potentially to my detriment, approximately twenty feet from two police cruisers. My only defense is that I’m unfamiliar with the area and they’re engaged in road construction near the highway on-ramp and there is NO FRIGGIN SIGN. That’s probably the only thing that saved my drunk ass, truth be told.

So we cruised home (literally, thank you cruise control) with our favorite hair band album, Warrant’s Dog Eat Dog blaring out of the open sunroof. I have a vague memory of Kimmie attempting to photograph a semi-truck driver with her phone, and leaving a very provocative voicemail for a certain unnamed boy when I arrived home.

And to think, we’ll be doing it all again tonight….

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