So That Happened

Last night a wild cocktail party broke out on my porch. It started with, "hey, why don't you stop by for a glass of wine?," progressed to offers to procure illegal drugs, and ended with someone communing with a bathroom floor (his, not mine). If you realize I was the youngest in the room by twelve years and the majority of participants were my parents' age, you have some idea of the humor inherent in the evening.

I thought I was doing pretty well on the whole not-getting-shitfaced front myself, at least in comparison to the other party goers. Sure, I was pretty tipsy, but I had carried a conversation just fine, managed to excuse myself to go to bed without incident, and even managed to begin a new book before going to sleep. The book was my one mistake: I had clearly picked up something very complex and nuanced that deserved my attention once I was sober. Oh well, I'd look at it the next day.

I woke up this morning, puttered around, eschewed breakfast, and picked up the book to see if I had overestimated its difficulty while in my cups.

It turns out it was not so much "complex and nuanced" as "half in French."

Well. Maybe a little more shitfaced than I originally estimated.