Owowowowowowowowow.
I'd hang my head in shame but I'm honestly worried that it might snap off and make a mess of the hallway.
Wouldn't want to get hangover guts all over someone's shiny corporate shoooos.
Ahem.
8:15, our dear Monstre, bedecked in velvet and rubber and a new crimson eye-powder even, and a motorcycle jacket older than most of my epiphanies, barrels up the stairs to Shammy's to grab him by the collar and drag him down to Foufs' anniversary thingamabobber.
The phone rang while Alex was busily trying to teach me rude things to say in Italian to my office-buddy.
The phone was disconnected rather violently with much launching of normally-not-launched objects into the air.
Two eyebrows go up, only one of them mine.
"I'm single again"
"I'd better give you guys a lift down to Foufs, I don't think Shammy'll be driving back."
*shrug*
Holy shit on a stick with mustard and a wee bit of secret sauce...
When Shammy's miserable and decides to binge...
I have no analogy for it.
I lost count at five or six beers (on the house) and 11 or twelve shooters - liquid cocaines followed by bloody brains. My fave and his fave.
We got Val and Norm and Ian and a handful of others in on a few of these, but...
When Sham grabbed me by the arm and screamed that he wanted me under the table with him...
I stopped long enough to make sure that, well, I didn't have to be too *close* to him, and proceeded to toast fickleness and shit faster'n something impressively fast.
I don't get it.
This is Shammy. Hotshot buddy-boy who stands his women all in a row and then decides which collarbone he likes best and wouldn't mind purchasing lingerie for.
This is prettyboy intelligent Shammy who'll say anything do anything and try to convince you that everyone else is out to get you.
So why is it the third time he disappeared and I found him again, by the bar, with a suspicious sheen to his eyes, all he could say was "but when I say I love you..."
"I did everything for her..."
Eventually his rage ran out, I guess, and he couldn't remember the bits about how she pulled him in very direction and the million things Alex tried to remind him of.
He had Val and I tickling him to his knees and all he could do when we stopped to let him catch his breath was sigh again and lean his head on the bar.
He disappeared again around 3am, we hunted high and low for him around the bar but nobody had seen the "really miserable guy with the black t-shirt and big white X on his back."
We figured he'd cabbed it home but in the light of this morning and Johnny's "guys take it a lot harder than girls"... I'm worried.
He's not answering his phone (assuming it landed somewhere soft and is still capable of emitting that shrill whine of a ring) or his office phone either.
I can't cogitate properly and am sitting here trying to decide if I should feel guiltier about Andrew lying in a ditch somewhere, or the fact that I'm going to get absolutely nothing done today.
Then again, Andrew is porbably enjoying that ditch more than I am this air-conditioning.
Bitch.
On the upside I had an orgasm leaning up against the bar with Marc's hands in my hair, massaging my neck and leaning into me so heavily I thought I would cry.
I can't believe I'm still in love with the fucker.
On the upside, cf - I'll definitely be there for a Guinness on Friday - I promised anti-dyke-guy a beer.
And you can help me lay into him.
*grooooan*
Kaff hugged me last night and a billion other stunningly wonderful things happened too, but right now I'm just going to meander back to the coffee machine and hope no one tries to strike up a conversation.
I woke up at 6am as I am wont to do, rolled over and realized I was still drunk.
Now *that* is a way to start a morning.
Owowowowowowowowowow.