Night of the 1,000 Martinis

I'm pretty sure I'm only moments away from being crushed by a grand piano, or possibly struck by lightning or of being accidentally poisoned by Poison Control because they thought my name was on their list of "people to poison", but really I just wrote the list. What I'm saying is there is no fucking way I'm getting off this easy. Somehow...some way...the Universe (that asshole) will make me pay, and I can only hope I don't need to take a dump when the moment comes.

In the world that I live in, I should, by all laws of nature, be lying in bed with a pillow over my face to block out the light of the hateful sun which should feel like the devil trying to pierce my skull and burn my brain matter. I should be getting (painfully) out of bed every once in a while and violently retching into the general direction of the toilet. My ass hole should be mysteriously tender. I SHOULD BE HUNG OVER.

But I am not hung over, although I am suffering from the post-binge Hunger which requires very specific food remedies, none of which are in the fridge at the moment because it's not very often that I need a bucket full of deep-fried tater tots and a cheeseburger the size of my head.

After the weekend I've had, the fact that I didn't wake up and find myself dressed in a sombrero on the lawn of Graceland lying beside a walrus in a space suit...well, that's pretty fucking incredible. THAT'S HOW MUCH I DRANK. Oh but not even I could compete with the drunkest of all, a friend whom has never been mentioned here on this blog because...well...you know. But after Friday night...she must be named, and by that I mean she must be given a fake name because knowing me is kind of like being in the opposite off the witness protection program, times vaginas.

This photo, taken before we even started drinking martinis, should have been a red flag.

This photo is literally the essence of my weekend: blurry and obnoxious and way too much fun.

Everybody, could we please have a round of applause for the only woman who has ever drank me under the table...Red! So tell me, Red, how did you find it within yourself to consume so many pineapple martinis?

Well, Cat, I think it was kind of your fault.

Mm-hmm, mm-hmm...how so?

Well, Veronica and I planned the evening in honor of your birthday.

Oh, I see. And did you at any time discuss with Veronica the plans for Friday night?

Of course. We planned to go see Sex & the City II and make it a Girl's Night.

Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, I see. So did it occur to either you or Veronica that perhaps you should check to see when Sex & the City II opened in theaters? Or did we find out at the last minute when I tried to find show times and couldn't.

We thought it would be in theaters by the time we had our Girls' Night.

But you were mistaken, weren't you?

(Veronica: Objection! Leading the girlfriend!)

I withdraw my last comment, readers. So what you're saying, Red, is that we ended up at the bar of The Melting Pot because we were unable to go see Sex & the City II because it doesn't open until May 28th, is that correct?

I guess so.

And then we ended up at Prohibition where you drank my blueberry martini, is that right?

The part you didn't spill on me, yes.

And then you disappeared with Veronica into the back of a limousine without any previous discussion of doing so, and the limousine full of big, black men deposited us on the sidewalk in front of Seven where we bypassed the line of people and entered directly through the VIP entrance into a club that was also full of big, black men who continued to provide alcohol to all three of us, once Veronica was positive that we hadn't been drugged. Does that sound accurate?

I think I bought my own drink, but yeah. Pretty much.

And did all three of us manage to offend three entirely different races of people that night?

Yeah, Veronica told our server, who was Indian, that he would probably be really good at computer work, and then I told the guy who brought us to the club in his limo that he was a douche for wearing a suit and tie in the middle of the night, and then you asked a big black guy if he realized he was chillin' with three white chicks adrift in a sea of black women.

Yes, that was awesome. So who declared her predisposition to consume martinis that evening?

I'm pretty sure it was Veronica.

But you agreed.

I see where this is going and I still say the whole thing was your fault.

How so?

By being born. You made me drink those martinis by being born.

I cannot help that jesus put me on this earth to be an inspiration to others, Red. Do you hate jesus?

You're the one who doesn't capitalize "Jesus".

Meh, he was jewish. Well, Red, thanks for being with us today. I'm so glad I got to listen to you vomit all weekend. We should do it again sometime.

PS ~ Next time, we're totally making out. Unless you're puking.