The inside of my face smells like feet and I haven't peed in hours

I blame this all on Grasshoppah, the evil temptress of pubs who lured me away from an innocent ed2010 event where I would have behaved and had a maximum of 2 glasses of wine. Instead we had wonderfully greasy turkey reubens (and I do truly mean that as a positive statement) around the corner at the Cask & Flagon. After finishing dinner we relocated to bar stools where I could rest my tired eyes from the 17 TV screens behind Grasshoppah's head which were very distracting and also starting to give me seizures.

Sometime between discovering that all the bartenders were UMass-Amherst grads and drowning my impending feeling of doom in 2 gigantore bottles of Magners (I don't care what you say - Magners is practically beer), the Whore showed up. Then Grasshoppah told us about Superman coming into her eye glass shop and screaming because of an old back injury that acts up sometimes... the punchline of which I did not get until just now. Shame on you, Impostor Superman, for imitating poor Christopher Reeves and shrieking in Grasshoppah's eye glass shop. Shame.

We then abruptly finished our drinks and left the bar. I don't understand why drunks feel the need to change locations. I don't understand pub crawls. I don't understand why anyone would give up a warm bar stool for going out of doors and into a freezing cold night which is indicative of the IMMINENT FROZEN HELL THAT IS WINTER IN MASSACHUSETTS. Bar stools are often hard to come by, so I find there are few excusable reasons to abandon one. I will enumerate said reasons now because I like to make lists:

1. You need to pee. I have a tilted walnut bladder so this excuse is valid for most any occasion that I can think of.
2. What you thought was a nice sports bar is suddenly overrun by girls with beat faces who are compensating by wearing indecently short skirts. No bar stool is worth feeling the gyrations of the coupling masses closing in on your personal space.
3. You're being escorted from the premises. Though personally, I've only been bounced from a few errant toy stores, my good friend Notorious was ejected from the Purple Turtle, Oxford's seediest night club and incidentally where we spend the majority of our time and funds while abroad. In England, it is considered inappropriate to projectile vomit on a bouncer. This is called the "language barrier".
4. You're falling off of your seat. At this time it is best to call a cab.

For no other reason should one abandon a perfectly good bar stool yet against my better judgement, I allowed Whore to direct us to a new pub which was ALLEGEDLY 7 minutes away. An hour later, we were still crossing highways in our exodus from Fenway to somewhere that resembled Beacon Hill. The Whore will deny that this walk took longer than 7 minutes (or at best, concede that it took longer than projected because Grasshoppah and I move like slugs) but that is because he had pants on. Yes. Pants, the absence of which create a sort of space time continuum where mere moments out in the cold feel like an eternity.

Gentle reader, last night I had no pants. Instead I had a cheaply made shift dress from a company that will remain nameless but had BETTER get their act together before I go to the mall and throw a hissy fit at the cash register. I know this dress was cheaply made because circa 8 pm on a trip to the ladies' room (see Reason #1) I discovered that the zipper had suffered a fatal malfunction, leaving my side exposed and my underthings visible. Despite my efforts to cover up, the wind cut through and it cut deep. I was cold.

This was all forgiven once I entered the Little Irish Pub That Could and immediately fell in love with their dart boards, drunks in camo pants, and $5 rumndietcokes. This is the place where I found myself in the wee hours of the night as Grasshoppah played crappy jazz music which made the pub people angered but not angered enough to exclude us from their dart game. It was the point where I met an aging intoxicated barfly who ALSO graduated from UMass-Amherst that I decided to go home. Or maybe it was because Grasshoppah couldn't stand up anymore and when she gets like that we don't like her around sharp objects. Or maybe I was tired? It's a gray area.

Regardless, I beat my previous record of a $20 cab ride from the city to the burbs by $5 which was exciting since that meant I could afford lunch today. Beau was asleep and very confused when I got in the shower at 2 am. But I had to. I anticipated what I would smell like this morning and could not allow myself to marinate in it all night. It didn't really matter though because I woke up "smelling like a distillery" as my charming boyfriend puts it. I'm glad I smell like rum though instead of whatever that smell is inside my head. Because in here it smells kind of like my little red shoes that I accidentally stepped in a puddle with and never dried properly.