Whirlwind weekend

Oh Monday, Monday, Monday. You piece of shit whore you.

Seems more and more all the time like I close my eyes for a brief "only resting my eyes it's not really a nap" nap at work on Friday afternoon, and I wake up and it's Monday morning, and back to the grind. Sigh. So sad, so sad.

Saturday was a whirlwind filled with epic, enchilada and Guiness fueled drunkenness, topped by a vicious hangover on Sunday. Ugh. So sad, so sad.

More about the drunkenness later, but first the enchiladas. Perfectly crispy on the outside, full of cheesy and meaty goodness on the inside, these were primo enchiladas. Nice work Miss Major.

Saturday started off fine, with some coffee and lounging around in the early morning. Mimosas followed, and led gradually into Guiness and Enchiladas. (A combination that should be tried by all.) In the back of my mind I was pacing myself constantly, reminding myself that St. Patrick's Day is a marathon, not a sprint. By the time we left for the bars at around 3ish, I had nursed my way though maybe three beers and a couple of mimosas. So far so good.

Then we get to the bar, where the crowd is raucous with drunkenness and a weird, somewhat angry energy. RiRa's is packed to the rafters with boozers, and it seems like everyone wants a Guiness at once. Being an idiot, I forget my plan to pace myself and decide the only way to deal the lines is to order two beers at once. A great idea in theory, right? Wrong. Lesson number 1: Beer in hand will be drank at the same pace whether or not it's one beer or two.

Fast forward several hours, and I am a slobbery, drunken mess. Fast forward several more hours, and we are home again, scarfing enchiladas and lapsing into food comas that gradually slip into a night's sleep. Lesson number two: After eating enchiladas and drinking beer all night, it is very, very important to brush your teeth.

Woke up with a vague feeling of disorientation, plus a smell coming from my mouth could only be described as rancid. I vaguely suspect that a buzzard has pooped in my mouth. God damn you buzzard! You mouth shitter you!

First things first, I need to move, but can't. Lesson Number three: The heaviest object on an air mattress will actually be sleeping on the floor.

Some time later, I've managed to stand up, and make my way to the first of many trips to the bathroom. I contemplate pulling the trigger, but don't. Largely due to the fact that I'm afraid I will actually puke up my small intestine, and that would be embarrassing.

Fast forward ahead ten hours or so, and my almost wife and I have finally completed the extremely dangerous trek back to the north. Dangerous because of the wind, and dangerous because I was using toothpicks to prop open my eyes. Plus, despite multiple scrubbings of my teeth, the air inside my car was getting a little thick. Let's just say that every time we stopped I kept looking to see if the dogface had shit herself. She hadn't. Goddamn you buzzard.

Goddamn you buzzard.