Oh blovers, I’m torn. On the one hand it’s a Friday and that means that some whack bitches need to be called out. On the other hand, I could write solely about my drunk misadventures of last which may or may not include: four vodka cranberries at Pearl, two hot buttered rums at a friends party, losing the back to my phone (I dropped it because I was drunk and Verizon doesn’t like that), crying in the middle of U Street because I waited in the rain for 30 fucking minutes for a cab, breaking my umbrella (because I threw it at a cab), and Ben’s chili bowl. And if say, I were to have three hands, I could write about how I finished my Christmas shopping and that I have amazing parents who have mastered putting up with an array of my shit.
So, what is a girl to do?
Or finally, I could redirect you to This Isn’t Education: The Greatest Hits of HB and you will realize that I do have some incendiary wit up in my head and I can in fact, write an actual sentence that doesn’t mention the word cunt.
I’m at a loss. I won’t tire you with my weekend plans, but they do include, teaching young Noah how to say misanthrope and cabernet sauvignon (I’ll be sure not to use the ‘c’ word in front of the child) and a requisite trip to Drinx and Indebleu.
It’s the holidays friends. Alcohol is in the air and I won’t worry about psoriasis of the liver until January 2nd.