I suppose I better catch up on last weekend now that Friday is here … month-end at work plus worrying about my dog is somewhat time-consuming …

The Best Friend’s birthday was this past weekend; she is one that loves her birthday, loves it in the way that I love Target or poofy comforters: an indescribable, insurmountable love. A love that will only be expressed in full when we face God in the afterlife (if we make that way, knock knock) and say to his face, “Thank you, Heavenly Father, for [birthdays/comforters/Target].” … And I am sure, in return he will say, “Do you realize who I am? You’re wasting my time, you stupid girls, if that’s what you want to talk to me about.” (Except, you know, He speaks using thou and thine and such).

The weekend, therefore, was dedicated to flaunting The Bestest Friend’s birthday and her time in the spotlight. We shopped for a birthday outfit, we arranged a birthday dinner, etc, etc … Completely the opposite of how I prefer to spend my birthday, but then, The Bestest Friend and I are polar opposites in many ways.

She chose a bar that was young and loud with live music and drunk dancing. She encouraged friends and friends of friends to join, ensuring the party would be big and everyone would know someone else. Worlds collided and I loved it. I invited The Sister, among others. Unfortunately, I was too busy socializing to concentrate too much on drinking. Oddly the same case with The Sister. She ran into a friend who said, “Hey, [Sister]! I barely recognized you because you’re not as drunk as you usually are.” Um, thanks?

With everyone else calling it a night, The Sister and I ordered another round and started discussing how, in high school and college, our greatest fear was becoming pregnant and telling our parents. We used to play the Would You Rather game but modified so one option was a given. Would you rather burn down the house or tell mom and dad you’re pregnant? House, no contest. Would you rather tell mom and dad you stole their credit card or that you’re pregnant? Credit card. We always chose the adaptation even though our parents would be supportive with a baby — we just didn’t want to have to tell them. Our plan was always to run away. However ridiculous, made sense at the time. We tried to play again at the bar and, as our pregnancy fear was substantially less, we’ve finally reached a self-supporting age, we finally thought of one option rival to pregnancy: telling them we got a DUI. Although approximately as expensive and easier to hide than a baby, it still was the winner. If only cabs were as inexpensive as condoms.

The Bestest Friend soon became fall-down drunk and texted me when she was on her way home. There went one ride option.

Which, with the fear of drunk driving and without many other options, is why we accepted the invitation to meet Baby Cakes and Sweets at a Bachelor Party (Sweets was in town for the occasion). Most of the bachelors didn’t know what to do with us – didn’t believe anything we said – but they were all pretty far gone at this point. And that’s always when I start to lie; if the truth isn’t believable to a person, I’ll start making shit up. My favorite was when I said that I knew the guys because Sweets and I used to date, and from across the room he overheard and shouted, “NO WE DID NOT.” Fine, man, ruin my fun before I even start the dramatic recounting of our imaginary break-up … One that ended with Baby Cakes challenged to a knife fight.  As all good ones do.

We played cards, drank, ate bad food. It was good. Was the last one standing at 6am. Pretty proud of myself. And, even though she passed out early, The Bestest Friend had a great time, too. Twenty-five was looking good – and coincidently, I think that is the exact number of people she convinced to grab my ass at the bar.  A lucky number indeed.  Couldn’t ask for more than that, I suppose.

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