Being hungover sucks. I had the most stereotpyical hangover this morning -- splitting headache, wooziness, craving for salty, fatty goodness. I guess I'm either hungover or expecting a baby. Just kidding, Ma.
I certainly earned my hangover last night. I started off the night at 8:30, drinking in a sports bar with Gary while we waited for Karen. After a couple of vodka-diets (my drink!), we headed to Boca, the infamous club where we last saw Kayne West's dj perform. This time it was some other (awesome) dj and there were super long lines, but somehow we slipped in (semi-unnoticed) and had a great time. The place was a loud, sweaty mess, and a few too many drinks were consumed by one and all, but man, what a blast. Another thing about Boca: everywhere I looked there were people in black and white, jailbird-striped shirts -- and I was one of them! I don't know if I just subconsciously knew to slap on my stripey shirt, but I certainly fit in with the crowd. It felt good.
Anyway, I didn't get a ton of sleep, I drank a lot, and woke up feeling like Death warmed over. I had to drag my tired butt to work, too, and my perkiness levels were NOT up to par. I was still a good receptionist, of course, but I think my hospitable schtick delivery was a little subdued. The good news is, my mommy drove me to work, since she is my new roomie for the next few months. Ah, the perks of living with one's parents -- they just keep coming.