I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?

I'm usually pretty tired most weeknights, but a combination of staying up late the last few nights and a venti mocha in the afternoon left me buzzing at ten last night. I decided that a cocktail might induce some sleepiness. So, I went over to my fridge and make myself a poorman's Cosmopolitan (cranberry juice and citrus vodka).

I must've misjudged the amount of vodka I poured because within twenty minutes I was drunkity, drunk, drunk, drunk. I'm not talking about tipsy, empty stomach, will wear off in thirty minutes drunk; I was shitfaced. Wheew! I remember buying the "Six Feet Under" soundtrack on Amazon.com because one of the songs made me cry. I guess I like to cry when I'm drunk.

Then I got really horny. I wanted a man. Right. That. Moment. I wanted to open my door and yell, "Bring out the men, lay them before me! You must serve my every need!" But I settled for flopping down on my bed and passing out.

What's even worse is that I was so hungover this morning. I didn't realize how bad it was until I got to work and almost vomited. It was very uncomfortable and my body was rather upset with me. And now I have to clean my apartment because it might be shown to perspective tenants tomorrow. The bastards.

Drinking is bad.

Unless there is a boy around and I can sleep in the next day.