It Took Me About Three Hours

categories, My Life

Reader tip! Don’t wrap an evening of drinking by spiking your champagne with Limoncello.

Buuuuuut, as long as 32-percent alcohol is coursing through your veins, you may as well send a few dozen text messages. You can send them all to different people by simply thinking of a new person you’d like to talk to. Don’t be all anal about whether you’ve actually entered their phone number or just the one you last dialed. Hit on the following key points:

Everything south of my waist is wet, and not in a hot way.

o never has anyone been drunk enough

Sara could fix my car, love. We are so very drunk.

Um. My terrariums are doing smashingly. Sara must plug in.

You must only be living jusy so, with the so trashed so well. It took me three hours or so. Cheers, rae.

Just so. Sara Brown is wasted. She won’t have anything theft, monsieur. How’s france treatin’ ya?

Around 2 a.m., compose incoherent messages on the postcards you’ve been acquiring since college. For example:

Dallas has the worst airport in the continental U.S. and you’re always on that thing with the guys who golf.

What?
OK.
I’m going to lay down.
My nose, even my nose hurts.

-It’s 2:32 a.m. I mean seriously, go to the bathroom.
-OK, I’m going to.
-OK.

Every once in awhile I am so afraid of ghosts, I can’t sleep. Which is bullshit, because ghosts don’t have muscles.

True enough.

When you wake up unsure of whether you may still be drunk, call a cab instead of driving to breakfast. Of course, the taxi driver will be drunk, but he will still take you to the place where they melt the cheese over the potatoes and give you plate after plate of andouille sausage.

Thanks, wasted cab driver. We needed that.

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14 thoughts on “It Took Me About Three Hours”

  1. Drunk texting, still so much better than drunk dialing. At least the text has a word limit and a record you can refer to the morning after…

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  2. Ahhh, the “thing with the guys who golf” being from Dallas I know exactly to what you are referring. It is what my friends and I refer to as the “golf cart on steroids”. An you always end up on that thing because everything is so spread out that it’s damn near impossible to make a connection flight without them zooming you through the airport yelling “Mind the car! Mind the car!”. Try doing that with a hangover…

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  4. I am trying so hard not to snort coffee on my monitor!!!!!!!!!!!! I’m not even sure what half those messages mean. HEEEEEEEEEsterical!

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  6. You know what this tells me? This tells me that having kids made me much less funny. Also? Much less drunk.

    It also tells me that someday, somehow, I will find a way to get to San Francisco and get drunk with a pro. A funny, funny pro.

    I forget that I should get drunk enough to drunk text at least once a year. When did I get so completely boring?

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  8. What is texting?

    I’m way too old for this shit, aren’t I?

    Well, HELL! I can still get drunk! Hand me that half gallon of vodka… thx.
    .

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  10. In Australia, Virgin Mobile have a program where you can block certain numbers from being dialled out from your phone for an evening. So if you are going out on the champagne limoncellos, you block your ex-boyfriend, your boss, the chick your ex-boyfriend left you for and the new guy you like. Saves finding those weird sent messages in your outbox the next morning.

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  11. If we lived in the same city, we would SO be friends. As it stands, I’ll remain a stranger in Chicago who loves your blogs. I shall love you from afar, Mighty Girl!
    Cheers.

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  12. Finally, someone who has lived a parallel Limoncello experience. I did the same thing: Capped off an evening (a family dinner, actually), with a few shots, shared with my brothers. After two, the room started to spin. I backed out of the conversation, curled up, and waited for it to stop. Lovely stuff, though.

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  14. The ramifications of the last big night I had on limoncello is now 2.5 weeks old and sleeping in a cot in our room. Texting would have been so much cheaper and way less exhausting.

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