And so goes the headlines of my life.


Crap, I so badly need a new site right now. So so so badly.
Anyway, Friday night I got dressed up to check out the Monte Carlo fundraiser at the Sheraton Hotel. Getting ready for the event was frustrating enough, because I only have like FIFTEEN DRESSES and we all know you can’t recycle the same dress within the span of a year. At one point I stomped my feet like an unruly toddler and screamed, “I’M NOT PRETTY ENOUGH FOR DOCTORS.”


(The Monte Carlo is some fundraiser thing hosted by the med school students, including my buddy Jagerbomb. And I just realized I missed this week’s episode of Grey’s, omg.)


So we had some drinks at the house and then Chef’s friend proceeds to get stupid-drunk and puke in our sink. This happened all very quickly as we were leaving the house, and I kinda remember seeing it out of the corner of my eye and thinking “did that guy just puke in my sink?” But pushed it off because it seemed like SHEER INSANITY that I’m 23 years old and still have people puking in my sink.
Let me tell you something, having to clean that up after returning home at 3 a.m. isn’t a pleasant stroll through the park. As payback, we drank his $30 bottle of wine.


Anyway, Monte Carlo was alright, but my friends didn’t want to stay long as drinks were $7 each. I did see my super mega hot gym crush there though, so now I’m wondering if he’s a doctor. I run into him everywhere, we’re total soulmates. I can feel it. Except oh yeah, I’m asexual and haven’t been physically touched in months. Did I just say that out loud? TENSIONS ARE HIGH.


We spent the remainder of the night at Lottie’s, taking over the dancefloor and having impromptu photoshoots. People definitely hate us. My quiet, stay-at-home weekend to catch up on shiz turned into me running all over the city and making crafts with the Rangers. I went to the St. Thomas Church and checked out some puddin’ makin’ event, and poked around a museum where Kevin Major was doing a reading. Why is it that everytime I’m in the company of “good” people, I want to roll around on the floor clasping their ankles and begging for forgiveness?

Oh yeah, here’s why.


I made my redheaded accomplice take off her shirt because she wasn't exhibiting her inner skank. And why does my arm look like the flab of an 80-year-old woman who hasn't lifted a barbell in her life?

I don't have the slightest clue who the guy with glasses is, but if I had my time back, I'd ask for his number. And also, wtf is up with the birthday hat?