Chicago on the Rocks…with a Twist

I so do miss drinking on Sundays, a.k.a. Sunday Fundays…alas, the 9 to 5 requires I work early Monday mornings.  This, my friends, is not a good thing when your friend, Dave, has a going away party/reunion for a place you worked at for almost two years on a, you guessed it, SUNDAY.  Damn you, David Barak!

It started as a normal evening, it really did.  I sat with Erin and had a drink and awaited for the drama to unfold.  It didn’t really.  The night was pretty smooth and unruffled; I did see a bunch of people I was curious about and caught up.  If only I had made my get away sooner.  But I didn’t.  Woe is me.  Woe is mutha fuckin’ me.

 I had conversed with my voice of reason.  We had a plan.  I went into this thing fully aware of the situation.  I had been planning an 11:00 Houdini.  I was ready to get out while I could.  But then my voice of reason ran off to Mexico and left me on my own.  It’s been doing that a lot lately, but I digress. 

The last thing I solidly remember is the bartender telling me I had already tipped him, so I gave him some more money.  Hello everyone!  I don’t think we’ve met.  I am annihilated and my name is The Bank of America (which, interestingly enough is the name my bank has just switched over to).

Now, here I sit, in the middle of Monday, ruing the day I ever met my best friend, Al Cohol, feeling every second of my 29 years weighing down upon me, wondering how exactly I got home last night and wishing like hell I had stuck to the plan.  THE PLAN!  Ah, yes, the plan.  But I didn’t.

Was it worth it?  I think so…?

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