TMI Thursday: The Funeral Addition

***Alright, folks, you know the rules. Join us all in humiliating the crap out of yourself every Thursday by sharing some completely tasteless, wholly unclassy, “how many readers can I estrange THIS week??” TMI story about your life. Or hell, about someone else’s!

When you're done reading mine, mosey on over to LiLu's to check out other TMIs, because:

TMI is really never too much

 

 

Well, right when I really started to enjoy this little tradition, TMI Thursday will be no more.

No worries, I still plan on telling my embarrassing stories.

But let's dive right in!

I have a habit of sexting.

Around 1am, you can find me in the corner of the bar with one eye open, furiously typing away on my phone.

This isn't a rare problem.

But coupled with my amazing escape and pass out skills, it turns into quite the situation, in which I usually wake up with 10 missed calls and some angry WTF texts from my current gentleman caller.

It really is kind of amazing how quickly I can go from horny coherent to beelining for my bed with some string cheese and no memory of what I was doing 10 minutes ago.

There was one particular fellow who really got the brunt of this.

It may or may not be the same fellow who I decided I was going to make out with in a bar...in front of his little sister....who may or may not have been in my sorority.

I think I also asked her once if she would care if I dated her brother.

But all of this is really here nor there since I don't remember and therefore, it never happened.

Words to live by.

Once skankily clad evening, I do believe I texted him something like "Over this. Meet me at my place?" around 1:45.

I would give this 2 points more than the "Wanna hang out later?" text.

I've often wondered about this.

No one "hangs out" in the middle of the night.

Clearly this should just say: Wanna bang? I'll b the big spoon after.

Soo in the 15 minutes after this happened, I half blacked out, only to remember the rest of my night because of the trauma that ensued.

Obviously, I dopped all of the contents of my purse on the walk home, which was also a bad idea since I had to go through a few dark alleys all by my lonesome.

When I got to my one bedroom apartment, I didn't have my keys.

Instead of calling a friend and going to their place, or maybe waiting for the boy on his way and telling him we were spending the night at his place, I decided taking off my shoes and sprinting back to the bar was the appropriate thing to do.

Because CLEARLY I must have left them there instead of dropping them in a bush that buffered a tumble I surely took.

The bar was locked up. Shocker.

It's 3 am.

I walk back home, shoeless.

My skin says bagpipes, but my feet say hip hop.

I never did find my shoes from that night.

Guess someone found something they liked.

I decide it's a good idea to call my mom crying that I can't get in to my apartment and then sleep in my doorway until my friend Megan came to get me at 4 in the morning so I could sleep on her couch.

Not only am I super classy, but a pain in the ass.

I'm pretty sure the boy gave up after that.

I probably wouldn't be very happy either if someone chose running around barefoot in a dark city hopelessly looking for keys instead of hopping in the sack with me.

Whatever.

I'm just glad I made it to the parking garage to pop a squat instead of deeming the hallway a necessary place to pee.