NOTE: I would have posted this yesterday but I was too hungover to finish. I could barely stay on my weight loss ball chair at work. Other note, should probably start wearing pants when sitting on said ball chair. 

I went to the beer tent of a polish festival / carny fair last night. Which is as equally terrifying as it sounds. Worry not sweet readers, I drank enough to forget what parents grinding  to an 80’s cover band looks like. It’s kind of nice to know I never really have to grow up- I just have to purchase high-waisted jeans, complain about gas prices, and forget how to use my phone. Boom insta adult. It’s comforting to know that when the roles reverse, and some hot, witty, intelligent, twenty-something redhead is judging the shit out of me, that I will be grinding my fat ass on my balding husband to “Wobble” and “Party in the USA”. So much to look forward to. 

Anyway, my girlfriends and I got pretty fuckered up, meaning I was the only drunk one. Who knew five Mike’s Hard Lemonades would hit me so fast when chugged in rapid succession while stage dancing with moms. Needless to say I felt very attractive, even though I wasn’t wearing boot cut jeans. I spent all the money I brought with me on $5 drinks and a random father gave me money to get a hot dog… that I pocketed. 

In the morning I found fifty-three DJ business cards in my wallet. I vaguely recall the DJ wouldn’t let me sing karaoke in the gambling tent, that wasn’t even playing music. I proceeded to tell him that I too am a DJ, a better DJ in fact, and stole his business cards as I ran out of the tent so no one would hire him because I was drunk and angry. But mostly drunk. I also told him to Google me as proof. Prior to our business card altercation he did however let me announce last call to a room of my parent’s friends. Halfway through my announcement, book ended by twin wohoos, I dropped the mic and sprinted forward because I thought I saw my friends sibling but it was a carny. After my friends and I ran out we proceeded to climb the hummer parked outside and have a photoshoot… in our sundresses.

When I got home I took off all my clothes and ate deviled eggs in bed. I like to think of myself as a connoisseur of drunk foods. 

1. When I have gotten out of the shower. Sometimes I wish I was a dude just so I could get that many mintues of my life back that I lose while showering as a female. Brb moving to France. Instead of taking a series of fifteen minute showers throughout the week, I like to take 45 minute ones a few (like once) a week. I have one of those as see on TV Turbie Twist hair towels with the little bit of elastic in the back. I tend to pull a Princess Diaries move and leave my pore strip on my nose to the point it feels like paper mache. Not to mention it seems that no matter how I scrub I will never get my mascara off in it’s entirety. It lingers there like my friends at the bar circa closing time who haven’t gotten laid in a while.
2. When I drive. At least that’s what I call it. It’s more like I am a Simpson’s Road Rage character transported to the real world who still belives she gets points for running things over. I blame my parents for depriving me of a Barbie Power Wheels Jeep as a child. Hell, they should make those for college kids. Can you imagine driving one of those to the bar? Might have to consistently wear underwear though. Anyway I swear a lot too. So there’s that.
3. When I play board games. You play by the rules or I will stuff a pillowcase full of bars of soap and beat the shit out of you (thank you, Step Brothers). None of your “oh, well this is how I play.” Did I ask how you play? Of course not, because I don’t give a flying fuck. Disney Monoply and the American Girl Game are not to be taken lightly. This isn’t beer pong with house rules and poorly designed college dorm room posters for “cool” freshman that advertise their drinking. We all do it. Get over yourself and don’t fuck with Felicity. Ginger American Girl doll is the shit.
4. When I am shopping. Picture the bloodbath Cornucopia scene of Hunger Games, only instead of camping shit in the middle there are poorly made Forever 21 dresses. Trying on jeans = traumatizing experience that takes years of therapy, crash diets, and mild alcohlism to overcome. Dare he even entertain the idea of playing the dangerous mind game of, “does this make me look fat?” To which the only respectable answer is, no your fat makes you look fat. Half the fun of shopping (jkay the only fun of shopping) is toting around a million bags that say, look at all the cool shit I got that will ruin my credit score before I can legally rent a car. Bitch, you can carry my purse. I mean, sweetheart.