Now, what was I saying?

Huh, it looks like I was mad about something. Can't remember, really, so mea culpa. My friends are wonderful and beloved.

Just back from Atlantic City, where Superfly and I went to celebrate a friend's birthday, and I am hungover like a sumbitch. Haven't tied one on like that in years! Back when I was bartending, I could hold my own on tequila shots or Irish Car Bomb festivals, often hustling bar patrons who couldn't believe a wee girl could polish off a bottle of Herradura and remain standing and drinking.

These days, I hardly imbibe, outside of Lager during my Eagles games or Corona during karaoke, and the occasional draining of Dancing Bull Zinfandel. Saturday night, as I ordered the first round of shots, I tried to remember the last time I boozed it up:

It was three years ago, in the summer. My friends Jaymie and Katie and I were trying to outdrink one another. Kegstands were involved. Someone famously woke up naked, with her thong whirling around on the ceiling fan, and a heavily-tattoed Irish thug nakedly beside her.

After the boozing and karaoke and gambling of Atlantic City, I feel like death that's not been warmed over, just left out on the counter all night to fester. I feel 104. Superfly has zero sympathy; he drank Coke all night.

Speaking of the AC karaoke, I got 86'd! After singing a few tunes the crowd loved, I brought up another song slip and was told by the jackass DJ, "You aren't singing any more tonight." Stunned, I replied, "Huh?" He explained that, since the microphone was plucked out of my hand by some drunken douchebag and not returned by me, I was cut off.

I thought about jumping over the counter and ramming the microphone down his throat, but I sulked off to pout over my beer, instead.

Ow, my aching noggin.