Blame It On The Goose

First time bloggin' via the BlackBerry, so bare with me (and my drunk comprehension of the English language...) (Post-blog posting drunk edit: Jeez la weez, I'm so friggin' anal...I re-read my post and wondered, is it "bare with me" or "bear with me" so I Goggled it...wouldn't ya know, it's "bear," not "bare." I'm leaving it as it for honesty's sake.)

I'm at my favorite San Diego gin joint, Dirty Birds (for all you in the LBC, think Riley's on 2nd Street)...love my boys who run the place (Adam, Johnny O and Leigh.) I headed there after a 13-hour work day and I drowned my sorrows with my Red Sox-brother-from-another-mother bartender, Walsh...three pitchers of Shock Top later and I close out my tab. What do I get in return? A blank receipt. Fucking bastards. Love you guys.

So I'm pretty hammered and I have my fantasy baseball draft tomorrow in the O.C. and I've done jack crap in research and I need to be moved out of my apartment by Sunday and have ZERO items packed...I'm a God damn mess.

If there is any silver lining, I did happen to get into some great text convos with an ex and with my 11th grade prom date (Thanks Anne and Danielle!!)...they said some pretty great stuff to boost my self-esteem. It's too bad I won't remember it in the morning.

Adios, mother f'ers. 'Bout to jump into a cab and see what O.B. has to offer tonight...

(Post-blog posting drunk edit #2: Why, oh why, did Dusty Springfield's "Son of a Preacher Man" have to come on the jukebox?!?!?)