Holy shit. I am so fucking hungover right now that I actually might die. Cocktails on the roof turned into an eight hour ordeal. Apparently this has made me want to curse a lot. And vomit.
I actually left my bag in the bar last night. Right. Because only the first six hours were on the roof. Then we went to Connolley's. I don't know that I've ever done that. Left my bag in a bar, I mean. I woke up naked this morning with all my jewelry still on. At least I made it to my bed, which is an improvement over the couch, which is where I typically find myself after an evening of revelry, even though my bed is only about six feet further into my apartment.
Me, earlier this afternoon: I think I left my bag in the bar last night.
Irish bartender, comically: Fer fuck's sake.
At least it was there. It had my two favorite pairs of shoes and my favorite dress in it. Apparently, I also left my favorite sweater on a bar stool:
Irish bartender: Is this your's too?
Me, happily surprised: Huh. I think it is!
Irish bartender: Fer fuck's sake.
Singing: "Hangover hanging on by the fangs. Walk to work on wild feet."
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