I don't want to go into all the gorey details because you're probably sick of all of ick and ooze and gore fille dup your ear holes, but let me just say this...it's alcohol or me. Simple as that.

Let me also say THIS...when you wait for months for a particular event (a.k.a. The Pussyfoot Girls with Cult of the Psychic Fetus) and you make it very clear to someone (your boyfriend) that it's a very important evening for you and someone (your boyfriend) finds a way (by getting wasted and making a fool out of themselves AND you) to ruin it for you (fuck, fuck, fuck), you're going to just snap (and consider finally throwing in the towel).

That's all I'm going to say about THAT!

Now I will say that it's St. Patrick's Day and I am wearing my "Everyone Loves An Irish Girl" t-shirt. Any physical nastiness spawning from last night's outting has disappeared and I'm gearing up to hit a restaurant with The Shoes. Having a cocktail will probably be a bad idea but I'm going to have one anyway. Maybe I'll have ten. I'm leaving it up in the air because I'm currently in one of those "I dont' give a rat's ass" moods.

But I do give a rat's ass about fueling up with The Shoes...so I'm out.