I've had a difficult time writing this particular post - not that there's anything wrong, it just happens to be post number 100. I felt like the one-hundredth post should be monumental, some sort of spectacular. I've been running topics in my head, trying to come up with something worthy, and then I had an idea; Fuck it! Ha ha, I will write whatever, and it'll be just fine.
The Messy Dressy was a week ago. It was a wonderful night, though admittedly not nearly as raucous as previous years. My darling wore a kilt, it was unendingly hot. Like ridiculous. I couldn't stop staring at him, and strangers were stopping him in the restaurant and hotel to tell him how good he looked. Yummy.
I got very, very, oh so very drunk. I was home by midnight. My man was also very drunk, and here is the best story of the night: once home, I realised that I needed to be sick (don't be alarmed, I'm a barfer. I have it down to a clean science now), so I went into the bathroom. My wonderful boyfriend helpfully made puking sounds every time I ralphed. I'm sure if he had be remotely sober he would have held my hair or whatever (though I'm also a private chucker, so probably not), but as he had such a difficult time with his shoes ("goddamn unrelenting shoes"), I wasn't surprised to learn that he didn't remember this, ahem, moral support.
There's a lot of words for vomit hey?
I have two exams and a week of clinical, and then I'm free.
The zombie shoes that no Messy Dressy outfit o' mine would be complete without.