You know I love cheesesteaks…

After a night of carousing, I often receive phone calls/texts/emails/facebook wall posts from friends thanking me for the lovely message from the evening before.  While I have never texted any suitors “she’s just being Miley,” at 2AM like a certain friend of mine, I have been known to profess my always undying, sometimes platonic love for the person in my thoughts or line of vision shortly after last call.  This habit has proved seriously problematic in trying to break and at this point I have pretty much given up hope of ever doing so.  Instead, my drunk self developed a genius plan to protect my sober self from realizing how embarrassing I am and has taken to deleting my text messages and call logs before passing out.

Anyway, a few Sundays ago I woke up clutching a string cheese wrapper and my phone, which meant I was in for a delightful week of having the ridiculous things I said repeated to me, ad nauseam. 

Whatever, if it really bothered me I guess I would make a more concerted effort to cease all belligerent communications.

When I got a call from The Ferret, my college roommate, on my way home from work the following Monday I figured the hazy parts of my night were about to get a little more clear.

“Fer,” she says when I answer (we call each other Ferret, or some form of, and yes, I know this is totally strange), “do you remember calling Hawk on Saturday?”

Hawk is her boyfriend, who she currently lives with in Philadelphia.  Despite his well documented hatred of girls who wear ridiculously large sunglasses and generally act foolish, he has developed a fondness for me, which is mutual.

“Vaguely,” talking about Philadelphia with some random men briefly flashes in my mind.

“Yeah, you left him a priceless voicemail that is just you yelling ‘I LOVE CHEESESTEAKS’ and then some guy gets on the phone, says something indiscernible and you take the phone back and start yelling ‘HAWKINGTON KNOWS I LOVE CHEESESTEAKS!”

“Well, this kind of explains why I woke up clutching a string cheese wrapper; obviously I was craving cheese after that phone call.”

“Hawk saved it for you.  We are going to make you listen to it next time we come up.”

The Ferret and I lived together during the horror show that was my life senior year of college.  She graciously put up with a lot of my shenanigans and didn’t smother me in my sleep when I refused to stop pining away for a particularly tragic male figure, which means I will probably have to name my first born after her.  For the most part, the Ferret tells me what I should do to achieve the seven year plan, but understands that I will most definitely do the opposite.  I’d like to say that knowing I have to report to her and Hawk keeps me in line, but that is a blatant lie.  Instead, they usually listen to my latest story and just give me an exasperated “FERRET!”

To which I sigh, “I know, I know, but…” and then we talk about someone else’s tragic life/fashion choices with the understanding that they get to mock me about said event for the foreseeable future.

“Who is this random guy?” she wants to know.

“Oh, just some character that I met at the bar.  He challenged me to arm wrestle, which I took him up on and then when I lost he bought me shots of Jaeger.”

“Delightful.  I thought you were giving up the hard a?”

See?  I told you she’s always trying to keep me on best behavior.  “Well, it doesn’t count if it’s free.”


Drunk dialing: -4

Arm wrestling strange men at bars: -5


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