Ladies Night.

Please, God, just kill me now.
Don’t get me wrong; I LOVE my 30s. I’d rather be 30 than 20 any day. I’m (more) mature, (more) grounded, have (more) understanding of where I am and where I’m going.
But Jesus H. Christofari on a cracker can I not handle liquor anymore.

Last night saw a long day capped off with a drinking binge with blogger celesbian Curly McDimple and the positively-delightful-and-Maggie-Gyllenhaal-esque Jess at View Bar in Chelsea.
Yes, the margaritas were small, but they were also only $1 and I think I had about 90 (ok, so maybe about 5, but still).
Conversation flowed much more easily than tequila (the beautiful Jess stuck to white wine while I stuck mostly to White Whine) and, before you know it, we had spent hours consuming well booze and off we went to grab a slice (and a huge batch of garlic knots…nothing says, “kiss me, BF!” like coming home with garlic breath) before returning to the bar for yet another cheap drink.
Might I add that, by this point, we were several hours beyond my bedtime? Oh, I may.
Thanks, you’re toot sweet.

After all that, we (and by we I mean I as it appears the ladies – the real ones, anyway – can hold their liquor better than I) stumbled to the subway stop, fondled a hot blonde (ok, it was a golden retriever), and we said our goodbyes. I hopped on the subway, turned on some Imogen Heap to drown out the most boring conversation going on by me between two Wall Street brownsuits, and into bye-bye land I went for a half hour.

There may or may not have been drunken sex when I got home. I like to think there was, but I honestly cannot remember (ok, I can remember but I have to be demure somehow. This blog is called “Confessions of a Southern Boy” but when did I ever readily admit to anything?).
And now here I sit at work, quite uncomfortable and counting down the hours until I can pack my bag and go the hell home.

The ridiculous thing? If they called me today, I’d totally do it again tonight.