You know how sometimes you’ll be like “I’m just going to have a chill night. Eat some pizza, see a band play, go home, go to bed.” And then instead of that, you go to a concert, drink too much, get beer balls, and tell the lead singer in the band that you’re going to buy him drinks all night. And then you take four separate cab rides, buy some rock star a million bacardi and cokes (bacardi and coke, rock star from Scotland? Really?) and force your sober friend to change out of her pajamas. And then on your way to the next bar you accidentally walk into a fire hydrant and face plant. And then you go to the bar anyway. And then by the time you do actually get to bed you fall asleep with all your clothes on. And then you wake up an hour later and decide that this won’t do. And you know, then you decide that your husband has to brush his teeth. So you demand that he get up. And he says “no, I am sleeping” and you, logically, decide that the best course of action is to spit toothpaste on him? You know when that happens sometimes? And then he goes and sleeps in the guest room and you say “good riddance!” And then in the morning, you wake up, go into the guest room and he says “why am I in the guest room?” And it all starts flooding back. And then you pick the cat hair out of and bandage your wounds (ew) and realize you’ve slept until 1:45pm. And then you check your email? You know? And you see an email from a lady from your church confirming that yes, they would really appreciate it if you could make thirty sandwiches for homeless people. Because you signed up to do that. Before all the rock stars and the bars and the face planting and the toothpaste spitting. And you realize that you can’t be hungover because you have to go to the grocery store and get food to make thirty sandwiches. And you buy the food and set up an assembly line in your filthy kitchen and make ten roast beef, ten turkey, and ten peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. And then you drive them to your church and the nice church guy there goes “Roast beef?! They’re gonna love roast beef.” And you feel a little good but mostly bad. And you chaulk it up to being twenty-five and stupid and you ask your husband if he thinks you’re a good person because you need that kind of validation. And then you remember that the rock stars from the night before were all twenty-three and you start to feel way too old for this shit? You know? When that happens sometimes?
Needless to say, we missed the Boston Book Festival and the Obama speech because we were too hungover/occupied with sandwiches.