My first legal St. Patrick’s day celebration was a success.
Started drinking at 12:30pm, finished my last beer at 1:00am before heading to bed stupid drunk, clearly not registering the fact that I’d have to wake up in 6.5 hours for a ballet class – which I went to, still belligerently intoxicated.
It has been far too long since I’ve been so drunk that I can’t even hold my body weight up or speak proper English. I don’t know how many games of beer pong were played, but I do know that I chased Crown Royal shots with Coors Lights. What is the meaning of life anymore? I don’t even know.
I can barely recall Heather and I running to my room around 11:00pm to write my improvisation essay, due in nine hours that I hadn’t even begun. She interrogated me, I answered, and a beautiful paper was born. I edited it this morning and wanted to cry from how superb her drunken thoughts were. If there’s a God above, please note how Heather Carter saved my life.
*Does sign of cross before blowing a kiss to the sky*
I think the best part of that Sunday Funday was pouring Bailey’s into my hot chocolate at the Winters hockey game. Drunk, face-painted fans cheering for our drunk hockey team, Winter Cannabis Leafs.
I couldn’t have asked to live in a better residence or be affiliated with a better college.