Oh Black Horse… how you deceived me.

On Friday night, I wanted to get drunk, and I wanted to do it quickly. Black Horse was the answer.

Normally, I drink about ten beers in the run of a night. I start waving around dolla bills and tipping back tequilas, or jager bombs, or white russians. But I drank just six Black Horse, and was knocked off my feet. I went to a random party, got flashed by a girl trying to show me her shamrock tattoo on her crotch, and danced until my feet bled. I didn’t wake up until 2 p.m. the next day.

When I was in the cab heading home, I expressed regret to my friends about not having made out with anyone. When I was the only person left in the cab, the cabbie turned to me and said: “I hope you don’t think this is weird, but, you know how you said you never made out with anyone…?”

I nearly fell over myself trying to get out of the cab.

Anyway, I hung out with my writer friends last night. We had supper at The Keg, which made me feel like a true working professional. We stood by the bar with glasses filled with beer, surrounded by handsome men in fancy suits, and I thought, “I could get used to this.” The food was fantastic. I was served a monstrous plate of chicken fajitas while all the other girls ate steak. I literally still don’t have an appetite today.

We went to a party. I tried to force down my beer with great difficulty — my stomach had expanded to capacity. Then we took a little journey to KJax’s new house, met up with my roommates at Flow (where the preteens like to hang out), headed to George Street, and spent the rest of the night at Turkey Joe’s.

I am beat. I think I’ll just eat cheesecake all day and watch Family Guy.

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