Bring Your Own Furniture Party

I’m still hammered from a party last night. It was called… I don’t even remember. I know “get fucked” and “Memorial Day” were in the title though. I think “Poop” was in the name too, but I’m not sure; in most cases I’d say it’s unlikely, but I go to some weird ass parties. You also had to bring your own furniture, so I brought a yoga ball that is now deflated in my living room… it’s next to a big roll of bubble wrap. How?

I think my buddy Pat tried to set me up with a guy named Dan because his name is written on my forearm in fancy cursive. “Don’t forget me!” Bad news for him; I wouldn’t be able to pick him out of a line-up if my hands depended on it. Speaking of names, the name on my Solo cup was “Pooty Tang’s Mom.” “Yellowish” also snuck its way on there too.

Fuck. That “cactus juice” did me in. It was half tequila, a third Sprite, and I think the rest of it was Pine Sol (the lemon kind). There was a nice girl in white (I think her name is Tara) who kept putting lime juice in my drink to cut the tequila. What a sweetheart. Or date rapist. I like strong drinks so I can actually taste the alcohol and not have that shit sneak up on me. I equate those sneaky drinks to euthanasia.

I sang Taylor Swift songs to the people in the basement, spoke with a British accent, and had a skeleton Lego thingy behind my ear.

I woke up drunk and hungry (bad combination) and felt like eggs. I didn’t trust myself with frying eggs, so I’m boiling them. Less chance of me burning the house down.

My fingers fumble across the keys; I’m pressing the backspace button far more often than I should. And the light from the screen is blinding. It’s like Jesus is here for round two and He’s making His entrance through my laptop. Good thing He’s here because He needs to take the wheel; I’m going to Sam’s 21st birthday party tonight.

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