Okay. So I've decided to defeat the block I've had in terms of writing posts about something other than not knowing what to write, and drunk Hilary Duff pictures.
Which, you know, you should totally check out if haven't yet. I mean they aren't in the section of Lindsay Lohan drunkeness with her bought tits flopping all over the place or her doing alps of coke like Mischa Barton, but they still are pretty cool.
I've decided that since I've finally given PMF, and for the record she definitely is my friend...but it's something she understands, a nickname that I can continue my stories from the way beginning.
To keep this long story somewhat short, PMF comes for a 'surprise' visit two weekends ago. It would have been more of a shocker if I hadn't beaten Shortie for the information because I knew something was going on and I couldn't take the not knowing with all the other stress in my life.
PMF arrives on Thursday, and I arrange to meet up with PMF and Shortie after my class so we can have some drinks and hang out. I was very excited as I hadn't seen PMF in ages because every time she came to visit I was out of town.
Shortie is working the opening of an art gallery, and so I beg off a happy hour with classmates to meet the duo at the art show. In the freezing cold wind. With Shortie telling me to get off the metro one stop early so I have to walk an extra 5 blocks in the shady neighbourhood. 'Hello group of drug dealers! No, no. That's okay. I don't want your candy! And no. No sexual advances this evening please. And this? Totally fake designer bag. See ya!" Smooth Shortie. Smooth.
So I arrive at the art show. And this is a phenomenon that Shortie has introduced me to. And damn fucking art show opening? Make sure you go. Two words. Free. Wine. It's the greatest thing ever. So not only are you feeling like you're having a cultural experience, but you get as much free wine as you want. And yeah, there are usually lovely little crudites but that doesn't matter next to the wine.
I swoop in and start my evening. Because here is my other thing. I always need to take advantage of free alcohol. I think it's clearly from being a poor working runt and finally realizing how expensive fucking alcohol is in the real world post-college. So we look at the art. Drink the wine. Catch up with PMF. Drink wine. Watch other people suddenly come in. Open another bottle of wine. Drink wine. Talk about Shortie talking with Metro Boy. Drink more wine. Talk about the artist's outfit. Drink more wine. Close the art show. Finish the bottle of wine.
Evening Wine Glass Count: 5 maybe 6.
So as previously planned, though much later in the evening, we decide to head to the fabulous, fabulous french wine bar in my neighbourhood. They have awesome, intimate seating and decorations along with awesome chill-lounge music. Most importantly? They serve Kirs.
Kir: White wine with a dash of Cassis.
Super Fancy Evening? Kir Royale: Champagne with a dash of Cassis.
I was introduced to such love in high school. Don't look at me like that. The drinking age was 16 thank you very much.
We enter and the bar is actually pretty packed. Interesting. Especially for a Thursday evening. So we huddle ourselves around the table and start in. Kir for me, Kir for PMF, beer for Shortie. Now, to be honest we're pretty buzzed at this point. Strike that. I'm pretty buzzed and the other two are on their way toward buzzed land. PMF and Shortie decide to order the cheese platter. And we all order another round of drinks.
By now we're laughing at shared memories in this dark, warm wonderful place and for some reason we decide to deviate from the norm. We decide to get some of their custom drinks. Because you know what? One of them has absinthe in it! Absinthe! So were all, aight, let's get crazy tonight.
Sadly, the bar was out of absinthe. Instead we ordered these fabulous drinks that had malibu, and milk and creme de cacoa in it and who else remembers but it was tasty. Wait. They ordered that. I can't remember what my drink was anymore, but it was very strong. Clearly as we're that happy we decide to get another round. I'm back to wine and Shortie and PMF are still on the cocktails. This is where my drink count gets a little fuzzy. I do remember that my mother called, because she always does, and because I'm drunk I of course decide that I should pick up the phone. I then shove the phone in Shortie's face saying, talk to her while I'm not in the hospital. Stories are told. Laughing has been had.
Final Drink Count: Unknown.
The next morning I wake up and as I realize that my chest feels heavy and ALL the lights are on in my apartment and the TV is on, but on mute, and I'm on top of my covers in my comfy clothes but not my pajamas.
Shit. It's 6 in the morning and I feel like shit and I have to be at work soon. Not nearly enough time to sleep off the effects of the wine. I do stumble around my apartment turning everything off, including the oven.
Scratch that. Maybe art openings are dangerous.
Good dangerous though!