I've got tickets to Mature Town but I keep missing the damn train.

The highlight from Friday night:
During a rousing game of Scattegories at Guthrie's, Kristin and I got into a fight over the Gibb brothers and I totally won. Sure, I had to call my father for backup, but I was still right. And yes, that does mean that I drunk-dialed my father to ask him a question about Andy Gibb, but that's only because the damn Australians who were sitting at the table behind us were NO HELP. And I know they heard us arguing because I made a point to yell, "ANDY GIBB WAS NOT A BEE GEE," so that one of them would turn around and say, "You're so right, mate. I know this because I'm Australian and Barry Gibb is our poet laureate."

I'd write more but I'm pretty busy today at work. Plus I still have a poem to write for tonight and I should really use my blogging time for that instead of writing more about getting drunk. I promise I'll write more later, because there was just too much weekend and I'm kind of amazed I made it out alive.

(And, in case you were wondering, the Bee Gees were Barry, Robin, and Maurice! Maurice Gibb! He's the dead one, Kristin!)