The curb snuck up on me. It's not nice to trip someone Tonya Harding style in the middle of a busy downtown intersection while presumably every hot boy in San Diego is leaving the bar. Before I knew it, I was doggy style on the pavement in a Bebe holiday dress. I suffered only a (possibly) broken toe, a few scrapes and bruises on my left knee and elbow, and of course, slight mortification. Did this stop me from partying like a rock star? Of course not. I simply limped around sans shoes for the rest of the night and finally went to bed around noon on Saturday.
As for the rest of the weekend, Papa John's Superman pizza is a wonderful cure-all for extreme hangover and protein depletion. Getting to see Cobra Starship, Jack's Mannequin, Panic! at the Disco, The Living End, Unwritten Law, Taking Back Sunday, My Chemical Romance, and AFI in the same 48-hour span was musically orgasmic, but rough on the single girl with no hope of sexual activity on the horizon. I <3 rockstars. I fucking <3 rockstars who wear eyeliner. If you can whip a mic chord on stage-please call me. Seriously. (Oh, and my apologies for the random texts/calls). Rockstars make me a little manic.
I did, however, advance to the second round in the playoffs for my fantasy football league. Woo hoo! And, Tower Records is going out of business. The end of the world as we know it, but the beginning of a whole new cd collection for me. 19 cds: $85. Score!
I am at work with one flip flop and one dress shoe, and half of the braincells I had last week. Which means: I should really start working now in hopes I can function by noon.
Happy Holidays.
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