wine and cheap perfume

There's nothing more annoying than someone who bombards you with stories about all of the wild and crazy things they do when they're drunk. The difference here is that I don't see this as an opportunity to go on a bragging spree that poses as self-deprecation. I see this as an opportunity for introspection. Last night Melissa and I went to Southpaw, where Sarah Michaels throws this party called "Laid." Obviously I didn't get laid, because I never have sex, like, ever, but I did do so many embarrassing things I think I need to lay off both alcohol and human interaction for a while.
We got out of the cab and found Ellie, Lucky, and that girl that everyone thinks is hot (don't know her name, she raps and models for DITC) smoking outside. Lucky and I went and drank so much tequila it's nauseating, I lost my phone, and a girl tried to convince me to go to the Michegan Womyn's Music Festival (the name alone serves as a deterrent). Her main selling point was that last year when she was there, she got "gang banged by a group of hot butches." (No interest in getting gang banged-is that weird?). She continued, "people still come up to me and say, 'Oh my God, I saw a girl pull her fist out of you in the woods in Michegan and it was the hottest thing I've ever seen in my life!'"
I said, "Wow."
Then I was dancing with this girl from Philly who told me that her tits were "perky as hell," and then I was in the basement getting yelled at by a bathroom attendant for falling asleep on a couch by the sinks, and then--I don't remember.
Melissa tells me that I unknowingly traipsed around with a hanger clinging to the back of my head for a while. A woman had pushed a rack of t-shirts by me and one of the hangers got tangled and stuck in my hair. I vaguely remember the cab ride back into the city, and I woke up this morning in all my clothes, feeling sick as a dog and my skin a light shade of green. I took Vitamin C, took off my clothes, ate a brownie, and went back to sleep for four more hours. Not cute. I'm a grown-up. I need to stop doing this. Like, this isn't fun anymore. When I finally dragged myself out of bed I headed back into Brooklyn to pick up my phone, came back, hung out with Annie for a little while, and am now trying to figure out how the hell I'm supposed to finish this article that I've been writing about lesbians and sneakers that is kind of funny but totally aimless. Note to self: stop writing about lesbians. It's getting old.