booty calls at sunday lunch

In an effort to procrastinate before my 4.5 hr long LSAT class, as well as to appease Kelly and myself, I'm making a new post. I'm also not even halfway through my homework for said LSAT class...but Logical Reasoning makes me cry and feel vulnerable and I don't think that's a proper state for me to be in.

Originally I was going to make this about the pirate I met at a bar, the same night I met a Michael Jackson impersonator, until I realized the story doesn't amuse anyone but me and Angela because of our obsession with pirates...We also have a theory that Irish accents sound similar to pirate accents. Can anyone verify or deny this for us? It's kind of an important matter.

So I almost got disowned by my family on Sunday due to nearly puking on my 8 year old cousin.

After a night out at a place named Butter (it smelled like fried twinkies inside! yes that's a good thing...), I received a rude awakening at 8am. Apparently my family was in town and we justhadtoseethemthisverysecond.

The 10 minutes I had to get ready involved cradling the toilet like it was my firstborn. Then we met my cousins and apparently it's church time...due to my aforementioned heathen status, I was dropped off at home and spent the hour once again in front of the toilet. Yes that means while everyone else was finding Jesus and eating the body of Christ, I was praying to the porcelain toilet gods; but both events involved kneeling and praying, so that's the same thing right?

Oh my god, did I just compare my quality toilet time to going to church? Father Bruce would not be happy...nor would Sister Eileen. Hello repressed Catholic school memories! I did not miss you, nor do I miss my hideous maroon and blue jumper.

So after all of that lovely quality time spent on my bathroom's nice marble floors (great investment parents, I had to make an appearance at lunch. At 11:45 AM I received a drunken booty call. Who the hell gets shitfaced at 11:45am?! The World Cup is over, it's no longer acceptable.

The Irish. That's who. I'm seeing a new Irish boy who is under Ireland number 2 in my phone, and yes I hope he never wonders what his name is in my phone, and who Ireland number 1 is. So as I fight off the need to puke on my 8 year old ADD addled cousin, I'm answering booty calls...all before noon. Except that the boy was belligerently drunk and didn't understand I was at a family lunch, and no I couldn't leave right now, not even to celebrate his soccer game win, and yes, I'm quite proud of you. Ireland number 2 mentioned alcohol and that nearly triggered covering the 8 year old in puke, who might have deserved it, but I would really like to stay in the will.

I win. I get to stay in the will and inherit things! And then to celebrate not embarrassing my parents and myself, I promptly passed out the minute I got home and dreamed of unicorns prancing in Ireland drinking Guinness.