…let’s just say I made up for three weeks of alcohol-free agony.

 

I cannot even count how many times I put my foot in my mouth last night. For real. This is how I really look when a guy is trying to do me from behind:

And this is me, switching roles:

 

I went out for supper at Zapata’s to celebrate X’s Birthday, where we decided that buying a LARGE pitcher of marquaritas between three people was a good idea. Being the beer connoisseur that I am, I forgot that tequila is involved. Tequila is my number one enemy.

 

The night ended with me and Chef stumbling home, watching The Wedding Crashers until sunrise, and eating day-old pasta, microwaved beans and molasses, and popcorn. During a philosophical discussion about women, I turned to Chef with my mouth overflowing with popcorn, and with all the seriousness that I could muster, said:
“But I’m a great catch.”

This was just after I made him feel my stubbly legs. Oh St. John’s, I missed you.  

 

How the fuck do you spell marquaritas?

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