So... Let's say that I logged on this morning and we started a conversation about how hung over I was because of how horribly drunk I was last night. Then let's say that as the day went on, you kept asking if I was feeling better. Know when I'd finally say yes? Fucking now. What. A. Night. It was fun, folks. My apologies for clearly being the drunkest Idiot in the group. I WAS the drunkest, right? I had to be. I don't remember us going back to the hotel. Not even a little. And I certainly don't know why I have ghetto's jacket. You're gonna want that back, right?
Alicia, you had sure as fuck better not be knocking wool sweaters. They're warm, fuzzy, abd perfect for rainy fall weather.
It was a wool sweater, but not the hand-made Irish variety. More like the ones you see military guys that guard embassies wear. Everybody thought he was dangerous.
There was nothing you could do about the urban legend in the white dress. She got abducted by the Bro Patrol, and they pulled the classic Bro Patrol move: inviting her to the table, then burying her in the back against the wall so she can't escape. We didn't have any dogchain necklaces we could throw to distract them, so snake eyes on that one. And EXCUUUUUUUUUSE ME for a second, but who gave hipsters permission to clog up Toronto like an Octagenarian's arteries? JESUS. I appreciate the amount of material we had to work with last night (most of them did NOT care for our out-loud drunk observations on fashion), but if I saw one more pair of skinny jeans or pleather jacket I was going to have a grand mal seizure.
Well the one guy was really matter of fact about how bright it was outside of Imperial at 1 AM. That's why the thick black rimmed sunglasses were a necessity.
Nah, they don't need clothing at all. They're kept warm and comfortable by their own smug sense of self-satisfaction.
I really shouldn't say shit at the moment. Neutral Milk Hotel is on my speakers. But I don't own any fucking pleather.