Joe's

I should have known the night would be a disaster when I walked in to see Jacob talking to a morbidly obese woman from Palatine carting around a wheelchair that as far as I can tell was only there to shuttle around a miniature guitar, while across the room Jeff was arm wrestling her left-handed sister on the edge of the stage. Throw two dollar pitchers into the mix and that brings us all to this morning.

Chad emails me this. Subject says “You.” As I’m still wallowing in bed, I naturally assume it’s just a slightly creepy way of him telling me I’m adorable. That is, until I walked over to the closet. My room looks like it’s been robbed. Ransacked is actually a better word. I honestly cannot describe that wreckage that is now my closet.

Allegedly I had a grand old time “reorganizing” around 4 am last night. I remember nothing. I don’t know whether to chalk this up to a sleep-walking debut or just mad raging drunkenness manifesting itself 2 hours after I got home, or maybe a twisted combination of both, but Chad woke up because a hanger hit his foot. And when he asked what the hell I was doing I dramatically swooped the dress section of my closet onto my dresser before exasperatedly spouting “Oh nothing darling. Just lie back on your pillow.” Chad hypothesizes that I then tried to make an exit, thinking the door was my closet. After quite a bit of ruckus I pitched forward and heimliched the lower rod causing it and myself to collapse. My ribs are broken forever. Groans abound in varying intervals before I nodded off for a bit. As Chad was checking if my neck was broken I woke up and sprinted to the bathroom to violently vomit monty python style. Happy Birthday Jacob.