I nearly drank myself into a coma last night and now I have to go to Jersey for an engagement party. Thank God I love the people who are getting engaged otherwise I would not bother stopping myself from puking on their lawn.

Last night one of the grooms (there are two) texted me to tell me to bring a bathing suit. What the hell kind of engagement party is this, you ask? The kind thrown by Evite by my dear friend Ronnie -- who, although usually detail-oriented and slightly anal retentive often forgets to mention crucial elements to his guests until the last minute. I bought a dress and heels for this shindig. Bathing suit?

I swear to God, if I wake up one more Saturday with snippets of memories of things I did and said floating around my sad little brain, I'm going to run off and join a convent or something just for the fact that it would give me new stories to tell. My life is like one long episode of... some show in which the main character drinks herself into a stupor and then has seemingly meaningful conversations about love and life with people she barely knows and wakes up the next morning to a splitting headache and the nagging feeling that she embarassed herself and her friends somehow. It could be called "My So Called Hungover Life" Or "Sunnyside, Queens 11104. Or "Saved by the Beer...The Hungover Years". I'll work on a title and get back to you.
Something tells me I wouldn't even make it through pilot season.