So I obviously survived the girls’ night over the weekend. I mean, I didn’t blog about awards from the afterlife yesterday or anything so I’m sure you all were aware I didn’t meet my demise. In case anybody was wondering, here is a brief recap of
what I remember the evening:
Runs in the first inning? Suh-wheeet! High five friend.
Wow, way to blow the lead guys.
Have I mentioned there was beer?
Holy SHIT, our starting pitcher just hit a GRAND SLAM!!!!
Another beer? Well, I mean if you’re buying…
Wait, ANOTHER one? I still have one in my ha- oh fuck it, I’ll double fist.
Why yes, I would luuuuuuuuurve some Parrot Bay you snuck in!
I don’t even need a mixer, it’s like water!
More runs. Score is now 9-5.
Here come the All-Star ballots.
I’m not coordinated enough to punch out the holes.
Guys next to us very interested by my rant on how Milton Bradley has a dumb name (it’s a board game company, come on!).
But not as dumb as Coco Crisp.
How did I get another beer in my hand? And where did the rest of them go?
Did we really drink all that Parrot Bay already?
7th inning stretch.
“Take me out to the ballllggaaaammmeee”
Drunk people behind us are very nice.
So very nice.
Yes, we would LOVE for you take pictures for us!
No, I don’t think it’s blurry. It just looks that way cuz we’ve had all those beers:
Wait, the game’s over?
Trek to a bar.
Drink more beer.
Do a shot.
Run into girl in bathroom.
“OMG, you are SOOOOOO familiar looking! Why do I know you?”
Discussion involving work places.
Lightbulb! “You’re that nurse who fucked up my pregnancy test!!!”
“I didn’t fuck it up, the lab did.”
“Yeah, no, it was you. But it’s cool. I knew I was pregnant all along and forgive you for the ‘user error’ comment.”
Take this dumb picture in front of the stadium:
Yes, I’m hugging Bob Gibson’s bronzed leg.
Walk to bars on The Landing.
Lots of dancing.
Lots of drinks.
Friend and I on stage for lively sing-a-long to Alabama’s Mountain Music.
God, I’m parched.
Wake up in hotel next morning.