Outline of Every Party I Attend

The hilarious faces of tequila shots

1. Vodka
2. Tequila shots
3. Become drunk
4. Deny drunkenness after accused of being drunk
5. Immediately evacuate premises

Foiled Again by British Candy

Pay no attention to the Petit Ecolier in the corner of the photo

A few nights ago, I came home drunk as a skunk so I went to the corner deli in search of very delicious food. So I'm standing in the chocolate section, and before me are the usual suspects: the repulsively amazing red Lindt chocolate truffles, the Ritter Sport chocolate bars: the chocolate of athletes, and the vast selection of British chocolate bars that routinely make no sense, like Yorkie, No Girls Allowed, Aero and Twirl. The main problem with British candies is that you never know what you're getting before you buy it because they're all packaged in the same metallic purple, white and orange wrappers, they don't say on the wrappers what's in them, and their names have absolutely nothing to do with the ingredients - like Yorkie isn't made up of Yorkshire terriers, No Girls Allowed IS available for purchase by women because I've asked, and Aero is not made of jet fuel.

In any event, because I like to live dangerously, I decided to get a Twirl bar, which is described by its wrapper as "The INTENSE Chocolate Bar," but I believed it to be akin to a Twix due to its two bar structure and the "Tw" letters. Well, let's just say that that will be the last time I am rolling the dice on British chocolate bars ever again, because Twirl is definitely NOT a Twix bar, it's actually a Twix-shaped chocolate bar with shitty chocolate nougat inside, leading to extreme chocolate overload that cannot be handled in one session of chocolate consumption. This entire debacle could have been avoided if the British candies could maybe stop tricking American customers and start changing their names from things like Lion Bar to something explanatory, like Reese's Peanut Butter Cup or Charleston Chew or at least write a helpful description below the name like "not very delicious" or "VERY delicious."

P.S. Someone on the street just tried to convert me with a pamphlet entitled "Kick Your Shoe Up into the Ass of the Devil" - HAHAHHAHHA

The Legitimacy of Spanx

About a year ago, I was shopping with my friend Jen in Bloomingdales and she said had to pick up some "Spanx." I had no idea what Spanx were, but she promised me I would swear by them once I tried. So we rolled up to the lingere section and she picked up this neon box with a cartoon of some savy single lady on it, and she pulled out a pair of nude biker shorts that resemble the control top of pantyhose. Wear these under dresses, she enticed me, and you will instantly look 5 pounds thinner. At this point I would like to point out that Spanx, however cleverly marketed or cool sounding the name, are pretty much girdles. You wear them under clothes to look less obese and to fool people into thinking you're thinner than you are.

For a long time I was opposed to Spanx, the theory being that if you're too fat to wear a skirt, time to hit the gymnasio instead of sclathing yourself into fat compressing undergarments. However, as my desk job took its toll on my ass which is still 100% slamming FYI, I foolishly decided what could be the harm in trying these "cool" girdles if they would take me from a 10 to a 10.5. After all, it's just another layer of trickery in my bag of deception - makeup, nosejob, pushup bra, teeth whitening, etc., so what's the harm in another lie.

Unfortunately, the main problem with Spanx is that when I've historically gotten drunk and made out with someone, I've been too drunk to remove the Spanx prior to said makeout session, so if the Spanx are discovered, I have to launch into the whole story of how Spanx are just modified girdles, and that I was technically supposed to take them off prior to the makeout but I forgot so if all parties could just move on and pretend that I was in fact not wearing a girdle it would be greatly appreciated.

I Repulse Myself, Again

The Defense rests

So on Friday Megan and I went to our favorite disgusting Mexican food restaurant, Amanecer, which is the perfect place to go if you want to eat delicious but gross cheese enchilladas served by the same waitress who never smiles and ignores repeated requests for water, and to drink the most lethal margaritas known to mankind. Seriously - you drink one, and you are crawling home. So we're drinking our first round of margaritas and I'm already drunk as a skunk and then I decide it would be a great idea to have another one immediately. So I drink the second margarita and I am showing all the classic signs of drunkenness: a) constantly denying I'm drunk, b) repeating stories 30 times, c) bitching about my nosejob and d) declaring my love for Perry and how, if he ever dies which he luckily never will, I will drive to the nearest graveyard, dig myself a grave and jump in.

Megan is historically familiar with the signs of my drunkenness, but instead of being a good friend and telling me it was a bad idea to go into the convenience store across the street from Amanecer to buy chocolate, she accompanied in there and acted like it was completely normal when I rolled up to the counter with NUTELLA AND VANILLA WAFERS. Um, are you KIDDING ME? Why don't people stop me? Why, every time when I'm drunk, do I always end up eating something disgusting that I would never eat in normal life - like last weekend it was garlic knots, Haribo gummy bears and a HEATH BAR, and the weekend before it was yogurt covered raisins and Cool Whip. It is other peoples' job to stop me from doing this shit, and if people don't start doing their job, there are going to be some changes around here very soon.