So yesterday I spent the day picking hooker heels out of ceiling fans and scrubbing midget vomit out of the carpet before the J-Man’s arrival home, which obviously indicates that my weekend orgy was a roaring success. In fact, if I don’t have herpes, I’ll be very, very disappointed.

I kid. In fact, B. came over Thursday night to have me help him with a paper, and we wound up catching the tail end of a movie about a woman with teeth in her vagina.

Yes, you read right.

The movie is called Teeth, and was apparently about this crazy bitch that became angry during sex, sprouted teeth in her hoo-hah, and bit off men’s Johnsons.

People, I was horrified by this to the point in which I was grabbing my crotch, and I don’t even have man parts.

At one point, the woman stood up victoriously and stared at her bloody victim while the severed organ fell to the floor, and a nearby Rottweiler – a thing that I have always maintained makes a stellar family pet – picked the penis up in its mouth and chomped on it.

I mean, really, movie writer. Really. Could your mind possibly be any more twisted? Did you have a particularly horrible relationship that led you to this creative moment in your career?

I probably don’t want to know.

We’re the dumbasses that watched it though, and I suspect that a lot of people have checked it out simply because it was just so damned disgusting and twisted.

Then again, maybe I’m just a sick fuck.

Friday night led me to a huge sports bar with a group of friends in order to celebrate my girlfriend A.’s new job working with autistic children. There was an enormous costume contest in progress, which we didn’t know, so all the little hookers and monsters were out in full effect.

Now, I’m used to girls dressing like whores for Halloween because A: they want to attract mates, B: they can get away with it, and C: there isn’t much else available in the way of women’s costumes other than Slut/Dork. And hell, if I were a size four, maybe I too would participate in this practice.

Probably not, but maybe.

Still, I was actually shocked by some of the outfits in this bar. Some of the dominatrix getups would have been far more at home at the punk rock bar, and some girls were wearing nothing more than string bikinis and costumey hats.

“Let’s see… what can I go as this year? Oh yeah, NAKED!”

I mean, shit. I wouldn’t do it simply because when there’s a lot of alcohol involved, you’re almost begging to get groped by every available gentleman, and perhaps raped in the parking lot. And I know, some uber-feminist is undoubtedly going to pipe up and tell me that no matter what one wears, one shouldn’t be a target for sexual assault, but come on, kids, this is the world we live in. You’re leaving yourself wide open if you show up to a bar in a string bikini.

That’s just how it goes with pervs who have had ten shots of Jagermeister.

Speaking of shots, two dudes sat down at our table and asked us to dance. After several rounds of refusal, they started plying us with shots, which is, of course, always a good thing. Free drinks? Sign me up! I generally only drink beer, but during the rare occasions in which I’m out with these particular ladies I tend to indulge.

So I had a couple shots of tequila, and then something cinnamon-ish was placed in front of me that I didn’t recognize.

“It’s Liquid Cocaine.”

Sweet Holy Mother of God. Not only was it inordinately nasty, it left me reeling. It left all of us dancing to something called the Cupid Shuffle, which I certainly didn’t know, but I learned. I learned it because it was both the easiest and dumbest line dance I have ever seen in my life. What happened to stepping that took some actual skill?

There are photos of the evening, and in all of them I think I am screaming “WOOOO!”, because I am that drunk girl. I am also the drunk girl that texts a lot, and allow me to remind T-Mobile once again that they really, really need to put a breathalyzer on my phone.

B. doesn’t drink, and he claims to get a kick out of my drunk texting, but I’m sure it inspires an eye roll or several.

Afterwards we ate like ravenous wildebeests and I then went home and drank a quart of Gatorade and a gallon of water, so I wasn’t hung over the next day, but I sure was tired due to the fact that the J-Man started to text me at eight o’clock in the morning and every ten minutes thereafter to tell me that Yes, he was coming home. This left me with three hours of sleep.

You may think you can party all night as a parent; but really, you never, ever can, even when your kid is a thousand miles away.

J. arrived home last night with tales of monuments and memorials and a funny bus driver, and even though his partner for the trip was the ONE KID there that bullies him in school (what luck), I think he had a pretty good time.

Now I just have to upload the nine hundred photos that he took off of his iPod onto the computer and see whether he took any pictures of quality.

Today is my mother’s 65th birthday. She is celebrating by getting tipsy on Metamucil and white wine and filing her Medicare paperwork.

We’re also having the redneck relatives over to the house, so it should be a raucous good time.

Tonight is our second little writer’s group, and once again I will be a nervous little bitch when I have to read my crap.

I’ve got to get over that. Maybe I should start reading aloud to the cats.

Or drinking copious amounts of wine beforehand.

Yeah, that.

Happy Sunday.

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