A Margarita-ish Thursday

This is our drunken blog.

So...welcome to our Thursday night. We had no intention of going out, but sometimes things change after you sit and unwind. We just got back in from a magarita-ish night. As I sit here, leaned to the side, I wonder a few things:

Tonight I pose the question of:
Could the economic recession be also good for your health?
When is it too old to be at the club still chasing?
At what point do you consult friends before pressing 'Send'?
Do you allow drunken strangers in windows to influence your food choices at 2am?

The beginning of our night, started with a casual stroll up San Vincente Blvd on our way to Santa Monica Blvd, thanks to what we thought was a phenomenal parking spot we found. That was until we realized, we had ten minutes before last call for two-for-one drinks. What began as our Thursday evening stroll, turned into, almost a full fledged 100 meter dash when we realized, (after seeing a random boy being forced into a gay older mans' BMW against his drunken will) we had ten minutes to get to the bar. This is why the economic recession could very well be good for your health.

We left the first spot and moved to the next where we witnessed severe pelvic thrusting. It's one thing to be at the club, chilling, with your partner, getting a few drinks on the scene. It's another (and yes, this actually took place) to be pelvic thrusting on a girl's booty at the bar, to the beat of Salt-N-Pepa's "Push It", when you're...over 40. When is it time to...stay home? Or, at the very least, ease up on the pelvic thrusting?

After escaping, what seemed to be inescapable, (i.e a cornball that we know showing unwanted love, a bachlorette party that contained only two invitees who repeatedly closed the curtain to the rest of their imaginary VIP section), one of us ( I won't say who), decided to casually send drunken texts, without the other knowing.

FYI: Things like drunken texts, drunken phone calls, or even perhaps leaving the club with a suspected strobelight honey, are all things that need to be approved through accompanying friends.

It wouldn't have been much of an issue if "said friend" didn't act like they were just possibly checking a few messages on their BlackBerry. Instead, one later finds out, they were actually sending...drunk texts.

However, these alleged drunk texts led to a bit of truth. One has found that when sending texts after 1am, you have actually stumbled into what I would like to call, "Honesty Hour" or "The Landmine". A time when you might possibly get your face blown off and may have to pick it up off the floor. Tonight was a landmine night, not to be dodged.

I found out tonight that the one I thought of as a "Cuddle Buddy", not to be confused with Cutty Buddy, might just have terminated the agreement without me ever knowing. The realization of this at 3AM, rather than the standard sober 3PM, was not digested well, especially because "patron got me in the zone."

If I had consulted with a friend before hitting 'send,' and was talked out of it, as you usually are by a caring friend, I could have handled this at an appropriate time in the day and acted, well...accordingly.

Instead, we passed by a taco spot on our way back to what we thought was a phenomenal parking spot (which ended up being 3 miles away from our final "last call"), and saw a man in the window eating what looked like a mexican fiesta of goodness on a plate. Drunk. Hungry. Blown up by a landmine and needing substanance to get home, we stopped in. The .79 cent sign in the window confirmed a good economic recession decision.

Although we ordered two separate chicken and beef tacos, we still don't know if what one of us ate was actually poultry. What we do know is, we won't be returning and no longer will be influenced by patrons in the window when we're off the Patron.

So what we learned tonight is, once you hit a certain age, you'll have to stay home or at the very least, stop thrusting your pelvis at the bar. And definitely, no more Patron + Cell + Send. Cause all of that equals Landmine Face.

Is it just me?