So I survived. Barely.

My Mom always says that when she turned 40, she realized that she was old enough to do what she wanted and not care about what people thought. I’ve apparently rationalized my 26th year to be just that.

As I sit here in my post-debaucherous lethargy, a state caused by three days of nonstop imbibation and the absence of any food save a bagel and a bit of some lasagna, I’m attempting to find witty and clever ways to describe my weekend. My friends, my brain may never recover, my nerves never again synapsing to their full glory. You see, I exceeded all expectations of a successful birthday weekend, with an exception that I’ll share at another time, another place.
Friday evening began with a soggy start, with me virtually prostituting myself for a ticket to Robert Earl Keen, causing me to decide that in my 26th year I should also look into becoming a scalper. My creativity is what landed me inside the glorious doors of the Variety Playhouse, as the scarcity of scalpable tickets caused me to invent a review of the show for a local magazine, and my persistance and the aforementioned lie wielded success.

Oh, glory. Give me a room full of cowboy hats, strong drawls and frattyhaired hunks, and Aubrey is a happy one. Actually, Aubrey is an even happier one when she orders three Bud Lights for herself and proceeds to drink them all within 15 minutes. Buy, drink, repeat was my modus operendi. The rest of the evening was a blur, I believe there was an incident with a cab driver at some point, and I also believe the exact location of my house was a questionable fact. Sleep ensued, on my couch, no less, with my cat’s heating pad over me like a blanket. One shoe was found outside, the other, under the couch. Contacts were intact, no money remained in the purse, and I kid you not, I slept until 6:10pm, a new record.

Alas, the fun continued…

Saturday evening, the hottest girls in Atlanta (myself included) convened at a charming Italian restaurant to rehash details of the evening prior and compare little sexual tidbits that I’ll refrain from repeating. Mass quantities of Italian food was consumed, and we successfully shocked the waitress by each ordering a family-sized portion ourselves. (Many leftovers also remained, though the current location of mine is unclear.) The festivities continued at a local watering hole where no water was consumed, though many – MANY – shots were. Some of the attendees continued their evening by practicing the art of french kissing with a willing participant or two; I remain silent on whether or not that list included myself.

And we’re on to Sunday, the culmination of what was already described by one participant as ‘the most surreal experience of [her] life.’ In this case, I’ll let the pictures do the talking, but one thing is clear: People are very generous when you walk around half naked.

Until next time, I remain, hungover.