Not a Bit Wiser

So I’ve been promising the birthday entry for some time, but now that the pictures are all in I can confidently assess that my family, while not the worst photographers in existence, also won’t be hired to cover any weddings in this lifetime. Although, I do appreciate that they remembered the camera this time; I further appreciate their running to the nearest CVS to acquire batteries for said camera when it turned up there was no juice in the thing. And I even appreciate the pictures taken of me while singing; even though I look by turns like a demon, a hooker, my grandmother, and Thomas Jefferson, I don’t suppose any family member could be at fault for it (well, maybe my grandmother). The same goes for the egregious cases of red-eye which, for some reason, MS Photo Editor has no function to correct. [Please keep their oversight in mind, as my overcorrections in MS Paint veer into the cartoony more than once.]

My mother consults the invisible Karaoke Ouija board.

All in all, it was a good time. Despite the slow rotation, the off-key teenagers (shut up I’m older so they’re teenagers) and certain bastards who promised to sing endless songs dedicated to their love for me but sang not one song and are therefore not only cowards but liars as well… well, that’s okay. We still managed to keep the party movin’ to the broad day light.

I… think.

And therein lies the dichotomy of the night: what happened, and what I heard happened, as after my fourth drink I was attending my own party in body only. I know the attendees well enough to trust them, and from their stories I really wish I could have been there.

I remember the Guinness, and the bowling, and moving it into the bar to set up for Karaoke. The DJ was a friend of my sister’s (holla! which I am totally not too old to say! Also, ‘totally!’), so our performances may have been nudged to the front of the line. I remember my sister telling me they had our song, ‘I Believe in a Thing Called Love’, and that I had to sing it for her, and my subsequent protesting that I was not yet drunk enough. I remember a Red-Headed Slut and a Lemon Drop; after that I became a newborn and remember shapes and colors only. But…

Apparently, I did indeed sing the Darkness:

Allegedly, there was air guitar.

Apparently, there was dancing during the musical break.

Awesomely, I remembered to do the British accent.
Afterward, I apparently told a complete stranger I was turning eighteen (shut it), accepted a Kamikaze from him, and then frantically demanded of my friends the ingredients of said beverage, particularly if it contained 151, and whether I should purge to avoid alcohol poisoning.*

Apparently, drunk me is the same as sober me, minus volume control.

The only other person in our party to sack up and rock out was my brother, he of the musical theatre. He got our special song right this time (Everybody’s Talkin’), and I sat and smiled like a giddy groupie, and (apparently) helped him out on the ‘wa wa wa wa’s.

Thanks, mah brudda-sista. We are so rock and roll, we're gonna break outta this one horse town, get famous and live off the fat of the land.
Drunk pictures are seldom flattering. At least my eyes are semi-closed so we’re spared my wandering, dilated pupils.

Apparently, I had fun. Thanks, guys.

* It doesn’t and I didn’t. Hi, Gram.


Anonymous said…
And not one picture of the Lame shirt. For shame.

That Darkness song is crazy, and can really only be done justice by one intoxicated. I'm sure you rocked out.


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