Drunk Dialing

Should be something reserved for the completely wasted. Wait. Sometimes, unfortunately I get really wasted.

Cinco De Mayo.

Yes, friends, this is the day of debauchary. And this year, I made sure that I did it with great dignity. Well that was of course until 1:30am, when I somehow managed to find the number to my ex-boyfriend, from YEARS ago. Ok, maybe more like two months ago, but remember in LA time, that's a decade.

I text "Hi gorgeous, I have a hottie friend that I would love for you to meet."

"Where are you?" He responds.

Where were we. Oh no. I bellow to my impecibly dressed girlfriend "where the hell are we?"

Sunset Beach.

This is the new hot club, I didn't know anything about because I never go to the hip places. Crowds, lines, and cover charges really just aren't my thing. But we were there. And he was jonesing to meet my girlfriend.

Ex-boyfriend, or more honestly ex-hook up, shows up. More like, Jimmy Choo. Yes, the shoe guy. I was so drunk that I wanted to hook my friend up with THE SHOE GUY.

In my drunkened stubber, I yell to the door guy, "let 'em in, he's with me." Looking back on it, the door didn't even know who I was, but to my surprise (now), Jimmy Choo, was escorted to the party.

Cut to....

Next morning.

Aching head.

Blurred vision.

"Shit, where the hell am I?"

"Fuck"

Damn it.

How the hell did I end up here?

I roll over, spot a handful of beautiful pumps, YIKES. I hurriedly try to sneak out, when I hear from the kitchen. "Baby, I made pancakes."

I didn't want pancakes. I didn't want a night of meaningless sex with the man that I truly wanted to pleasure my friend. I want to know where my car is, and if he doesn't know that much, perhaps, just a ride home.

Game over.

I am a commitmentphobe... buyer beware.