Sinds:

I’ve said this to KPeace every night this week but I’ll say it again.  You know when you have SO much to do that you literally just CANNOT DO ANYTHING of importance?  Yeah, that’s how I’ve felt all week.  Hence this post.

I’d like to fill you in on my joke of a Thanksgiving break.  So I’m from a suburb of New York City and us “bridge and tunnel” kids, as we’re called, always go into the city on Thanksgiving Eve.  Every time my friends and I go out in the city it is a disaster. Literally, a huge goddamn disaster.

Like, there was one time when I drunkenly left my boyfriend outside on a line, waiting to get into a club.  When he finally got in with the rest of the plebs and saw me taking shots with some bros who had a table, he decided it would be appropriate to yell and make a scene.  The shot-boys thought a rando stranger was yelling at me so they started talking shit to the crazy person that was actually my boyfriend.  So shot boy and crazy boy are fighting and then out of nowhere my girl Floater starts HYSTERICALLY SOBBING.  Literally, tears are POURING out of her eyes and she is telling me that I’m in an abusive relationship which is funny because if anyone is abusive in my relationship, it’s me.  Wait, maybe that’s what she meant.  So anyway I decided I absoulutely could not be in the city one minute longer and the train just wouldn’t do it, so I convinced Neil to accompany me in the 45 minute CAB ride back to my home.  Which came to a reasonable $130 dollars.  TRY AND STOP ME.

So Thanksgiving Eve was doomed from the start.

We board the train to Grand Central Station.  Skirts and heels on, booze stuffed in our bags.  We must look like hot messes.  Do we honestly think its okay to waltz on to the train, looking for those prime seats that face each other, holding ice and cups and wearing 6 inch heels and bare legs in November?  People just don’t act like this in real life.  Anyway, we peer pressure some poor commuter into moving out of the area we want to occupy and promptly take out or beverages.  Why is it okay for us to drink alcohol on a train?  Like, why don’t they say anything?  Anyway.  We arrive at our destination: our friends’ apartment in midtown.  We check in with the doorman, clutching our Redbulls, and head into the elevator to floor 14P.  What does the ‘P’ stand for, do you ask?  Penthouse.  That’s right, our college-aged friends live in a penthouse in NYC.  I mean… I’ll just leave it at that.

We open the door and the first thing we hear is: SOMEBODY’S FRIENDS PEED ON MY FUCKING TOILET SEAT. Okay.  It’s going to be THAT kind of night.  We reluctantly say hi to all our old high school friends and go to put our coats down in one of the bedrooms, where someone happens to be puking into a trash can.  Standard.  Here is a list of some other things I notice:

1.  My old high school hookup who, as it seems, removed all of his face piercings.  Cool.  Moving up in the world.
2.  75% of the guests overdressed for the situation.  Literally more sequins, feathers, and lace than I’ve ever seen.  All in one outfit.
3.  People carrying small dogs

Once again, standard.

Anyway, we decide it’s time to dip and head to “Pony Bar,” a questionable choice.  Friends told us to meet them there, but clearly our friends were middleaged business men.  Simply not okay.  After standing awkwardly in the middle of the bar for several minutes, we leave.  Au revior, Pony Bar.
Our usual mode of transportation home from nights in the city is a causal 14 person car service, since the last train home is at 1:30.  Naturally, we bypassed this and went straight for the stretch limo that was parked outside Pony Bar.  Um, what?  I mean there’s literally no other way to explain it.  There was a stretch limo parked outside so we got in and we left.  Several photographs, one drunk dial to KP, and many soft pretzels later, we’re back at Grand Central.

Obviously I run into someone from school and pretend as if we haven’t seen each other in three years when really it’s been only three days, and leap into his arms.  Then I get pulled onto the train, probably by Floater, and proceed to chuck my remaining mustard (from the soft pretzel) far, far away into the mysterious land of the late-night train.

While the night was not extremely successful, we have to remember the little things ie we all made it home alive, I looked hot, etc.

On another, infinitely more serious note, I must show you all a highly scientific explanation of the similarities and differences between Edward Cullen and our very own KP, as discovered by Alexandra.

Also, just so you know, I’m currently in the library PRETENDING to do work when I could clearly be in the comfort of my own snuggie.  My life is a joke.

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