The last time I was morbidly ill due to alcohol was a few summers ago at Ben's cousin's house. We went out to dinner with Byron, his ex-wife, and their two-year-old, Oscar (incidentally, I highly disapprove of Oscar as a baby name, though the fact that this particular Oscar is at least one quarter Brazilian makes it acceptable by a small margin), where we had pizza and two bottles of wine, which only three of us actually drank. Then we retreated Byron's house where he rooted around in the pantry until he unearthed some bottles of his father's infamous rotgut wine of choice, Charles Shaw. Charlie Shaw's, or Two Buck Chuck, tastes like prison liquor, made from month-old fruit scraps and brewed in a garbage bag. It is acceptable only when one is already moderately full of alcohol. The true tragedy of this story is that Ben and his cousin switched to Coors Light and failed to offer me any, leaving me with all the wine. The consequences were unpleasant.

When Karen, my work buddy, found out I was leaving, she insisted on bestowing on me some sort of farewell gift.

YUM YUM.


Also: I cut myself bangs.