a toot-toot/suicide blonde

Heads up young cowpokes:

The "royal we" are invited to (For real! Actual invites!); and get this: no less than four parties in this one small weekend.

I KNOW. It is not to believed.

Such an occurance has probs not happened since those steamy summer days of ought-three, where beer flowed like wine (?), I was young, and did not so much mind my hair curling in the humidity/jean skirts.

I bring all this up for a few reasons:

ONE. My tolerance is painfully, bashfully low. I chatter aimlessly WAY. TOO. MUCH. after one glass of chardon-yay, and take pretty much 0 responsibility after 1 1/2 glasses re: anything else that comes out of my mouth. I am a talker. Sometimes, a liar. And, to top it all off, I find it charming. Silence is a goldenish-tinged uncomfort. You have been sufficiently warned.

Either all this, or I refuse to talk at all. Mute/terrified. All or nothing.

TWO. I do not make it a habit to talk work on this herrrr blog, but check it: today might have been the suckiest afternoon of my long profesh career. It has been awkward a thousand ways to Sunday. I am still sitting here, at 6:07, not even PRETENDING like I am going to make a move towards my car soon. Mistakes, they have been made. Heads, they shall roll. Resume, it shall be updated. Drink, it is required.

TROIS. Related: I need to wake up v. v. v. early tomorrow, to drive in the nastiness on the nastinest of highways, all the way up to the dag nastiest of MD towns, to correct some very nasty probs. Do not go into publishing, kittens. You think you will be some sort of Anna Wintour and instead you will become me, cubicled and wearing old itchy turtlenecks and sensible loafers. This means I will also be sleep deprived at the start of my weekend. In turn, this means I might be wearing spangled items of clothing. When we talk later, Internets, we'll just pretend it didn't happen.

FOUR. Request: Should you spot lil' ole we, stumbling about Shaw/Dupont/Woodley Park/Golden Triangle at any point within the next 72 hours; befriend a poor, drunk, probably cold urchin. A girl needs friends. Do not talk me out of telling you that Joy Division is the best band that ever was. I will try to tell you this probably, it's best to just pat my head and smile. I vow to not upchuck apps on your shoes in return.