Greetings, gentle readers, from hell.
It is inevitable; once a year, alcohol will suddenly become my nemesis. Last May, tequila turned it's back on me during Vanessa's birthday happy hour. This year, it was two glasses of wine, one green tea martini, one flute of champagne, and 8 Miller Lites. And they were certainly unkind.
My ability to write coherent sentences has evaporated (I'm willing to bet that is partly due to a Flavor of Love marathon that I am still inexplicably watching), so I'll spare you the details of the weekend until I've recovered. I never made it to the Guggenheim. But my GOD, the bar-hopping.