So last night I headed over to the local watering hole for the drunkfest known as St. Patrick’s Day, having not been out (aside from the ‘con) for a full three months. Three months! I know, I’m slipping.

Don’t you say I’m getting old. I’ll smack the shit out of you with the wet sea creature of your choice.

I sat at the bar texting because I didn’t really know too many people save the bartendresses, and while they’re all very cool and take damned good care of me and my incessant complaints about the chilly air in the bar, they don’t really have the time to stand around and chat.

I’ve had a hell of a time meeting people in Indianny, unless you count the random acts that stop by my spot at the bar, tell me their life stories, and proceed to try to take me home with them. While this sometimes gets me a ride home – if I’m feeling brave and don’t feel I’m going to be raped in the car – it more often than not is just annoying. Also, it’s better to walk in the freezing cold than to almost get raped in the car.

Last night that annoyance came in the form of a sad sack from Texas who also didn’t know anyone and came over to tell me that he was moderately homely, had a crappy personality, a small penis, and was just looking for a girl who made bad decisions. Way to open, right? I told him that he was barking up the wrong tree, but that I would help him scout out some drunk chicks that might suit his purposes if I didn’t have to expend too much effort.

We picked out a few girls who were young, tipsy, and holding fruity concoctions, and I pointed him in their direction.

He toddled off, Guinness in hand, and came back later to tell me, “I’m sorry, I know you’re like, a “9″, and you would never, you’re too smart for that, but I wish you would.”

A: I’m no “9″ unless you’re really, really fucking drunk.

B: This guy was trying so mirthlessly to butter me up that it was depressing me.

C: Help.

I began to frantically make faces at my friend Jeremy across the bar, twisting my eyebrows and contorting my mouth in order to get him to save me because I never have the balls to say, “Look, Joker, don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you.”

All this time I was drunk-texting both my ex about… I forgot, and my college roommate to get his ass in gear, find his keys, and come pick me up.

I was saved on all three counts. My friend appeared, my ex kept texting, and my old roommate eventually showed. Victory was mine.

This morning I felt pretty damned good because I drank water like a fiend all damned night, and I must admit that I patted myself on the back a little as I sat down at my laptop to check my Facebook.

Until I noticed the large pile of vomit on top of it.

Yeah.

Something tells me that either the cats indulged in a little Jameson during my absence, or that son of a bitch followed me home, sneaked into my basement, and horked Guinness all over my laptop.

Either way, it was most unpleasant.

Hope you got your drink on safely.

Happy Friday.

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