What a Waste

Apparently getting wasted Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays, week after week, isn't good for you. And apparently the physical (and emotional) trauma manifests itself as a __ pound weight gain. Really I can think of no greater punishment that would dissuade me from ever touching alcohol again. But self destruction is one of my favorite activities as listed on Facebook, so I shall press on.

So it is Saturday night and instead of staying in to do accounting homework and watch Hannah Montana, I go to a bar and listen to a band I don't know covering songs I don't know. And during this exciting night I:

Shave my head save for a little strip from the front to the back. They call this a mohawk in some cultures.

See some impossibly good looking guys and pretend that rubbing my crotch against their ass is inevitable because it's so damn crowded.

Get a compliment from a hottie for my popped collar.

Eat some carbs.

But at the end of the night, I still feel like shit. And maybe it's because there are so many people in this world that want to bring me down by telling me I'm wrong, ignorant, naive, bitter, insensitive, selfish, vain. Or maybe it's because they aren't telling me anything I don't know already.


And since I'm writing this wasted, excuse any lapses in judgment and grammar.