It’s amazing what three days of drinking can do to your body. Not only do I feel to’ up from tha flo up but I have these huge bruises on my legs. I asked Ursy where these bruises could have come from and she said, “Maybe it’s because you and that guy were body slamming eachother on Saturday.”

Oh, right, Remember the guy from Rue B? Well, apparently we started dancing in the middle of the bar–even though Rue B is a JAZZ BAR and the only area you could possibly dance in is this sliver of a space near the piano–and we kept knocking into eachother because that’s what happens when two intoxicated people try to dance in a space the size of a place mat.

Anyway, I ended up hanging out with him again on Tuesday. At first I was worried that he would not be as cute sober as he was when I was drunk but I walked into the bar, spotted him near the entrance and he was, indeed, quite steamy. Literally. My glasses fogged up as soon as I walked into the bar. It was a little embarrassing. Foggy glasses are the optometrical equivalent of red-wine-mouth.

So we had a couple of drinks and we got onto the subject of karaoke, because hello I’m Asian, and I asked him if he liked it and he said, “I love karaoke.”

OH.

MY.

GOD.

I HAVE TO MARRY YOU.

(Of course I did not say that out loud. I’m crazy not stupid.)

But every man has his flaws and the boy’s big flaw is that he’s twenty-five.

TWENTY FIVE.

Sure, I have the maturity level of a twelve year old boy but I can not date a twenty-five year old. It’s like I’m asking myself to get screwed over.Twenty-five is the prime age for hunting and gathering. Guys his age actually have the energy to go out to the Meatpacking district and look for ass. Guys my age stay at home and take a bunch of pharmaceuticals and play X-box.

But he’s so cute.

Fuck.

I know, I know. Shut it down.

On Wednesday, my ex-boyfriend was in town for a day so we met up for happy hour. Except happy hour turned into drinking until eleven and him having to call Amtrak to book a later train because he missed his first train. It was good to see him. He’ll always have a special place in my heart. Unfortunately, that place is currently occupied by heart burn.

On Friday, we all went karaoking for my friend Liz’s birthday. Liz is awesome. We met freshman year of college when a group of us decided to go this club called The Tunnel (you might remember it from the movie Kids) and my first impression of Liz was “That girl is wearing a furry ass coat.”

Seriously, her coat kinda looked like this:

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Then my second impression was, “That is one funny bitch. I have to be friends with her.”

So there were like 50 people in this private karaoke room. My friend Vidya and I were trying to figure out our first song. “What about R. Kelly’s Ignition?” she asked. Well, I love R. Kelly but I’m not sure if a bunch of sober people would like R. Kelly. I suggested maybe something more neutral like Bon Jovi. White people love Bon Jovi.

The funny thing about karaoke is that one minute you’re just milling around and talking and then the next minute you’re humping the floor and singing You Oughta Know.

Karaoke…cheaper than therapy.

On Saturday, Dave and Ursy and I went out to Luca Bar for brunch and started talking about Don Cheadle and what a great actor he is and Dave goes, “How did Don Cheadle go from Mean Girls to Hotel Rwanda?”

“Um, Don Cheadle was not in Mean Girls. Tim Meadows was in Mean Girls.”
“Wait, Don Cheadle wasn’t in SNL? Or Ladies Man?”
“No, that’s Tim Meadows.”
“They’re not the same person?”
“Um…no.”

Mind you, my friend Dave is a brotha and he couldn’t even tell Don Cheadle and Tim Meadows apart. Could you imagine Tim Meadows doing Hotel Rwanda??? “Helloooo…I’m tha ladies man. Is there a problem with the Tutsis?” Um, yeah, let’s give a NAACP image award to Tim Meadows for Most Versatile Actor.

Okay, I have to go work off my wine and cheese belly now. Peace.