Sometimes I am visited by the bad idea bears. They come skipping inside, and say things like "Hello Joshua! Why don't you make ridiculous decisions and behave like a complete jack ass?" I shrug, and say "Well, alright. Let's go." And then, all hell breaks loose. I stumble into work in pitiful shape, if I bother to show up at all. I wake up three days later with a hangover that makes me feel like a dead opossum.
Witness the progression of my shenanigans:
Abby and D. at the French Quarter Festival, probably around 6pm.
Abby and D at Lafitte's in Exile, probably around 9pm.
Oh yeah. We had work tomorrow. But they had the good sense to leave. Not me.
I stayed. And wound up wandering down Airline Highway at 6:30am, after gnawing off my arm to escape the the clutches of a bad decision. Have you ever snuck out of someone's house as the sun was rising on a Monday, only to find yourself in a nondescript suburb with no real idea how to get back to where it is appropriate for you to be? Luckily, I wandered into a gas station and they were kind enough to call me a taxi.
Or, we could consider Friday night, where I hung out at Ohm for, oh, the entire goddamn night drinking an unacceptable amount of vodka and doing coke in the upstairs bathroom. Oh yeah, I had work the next day. I showed up 45 minutes late on Saturday in the clothes from the night before, and left an hour early. Out of three scheduled hours, I got an hour and fifteen minutes on the clock. After sobering up on Monday, I bought everyone breakfast. God knows, it was the least I could do.
Next time I see the bad idea bears, I'm going to slit their furry little throats.
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