I have the biggest hickies of my life right now, right on my neck, right in plain view. They'll look lovely in my graduation photos. I can't wait to answer all the questions from my parents and my family and Mrs. Jillian and such.

Here's the story: Amanda Senn came to visit last night. Amanda Senn visiting = revelry and debauchery. We started drinking at 5:00. I had a half pitcher of margaritas (that's FIVE margaritas, ladies) and 1 1/2 Smirnoff Ices...BEFORE we went to the bar. (I had somewhere between 10 and 11 drinks last night, including a shot of something Eric Miller and Stacy gave me, promising it would taste like Sweet Tarts. It didn't. I usually trust Eric; he makes/orders me the best drinks ever...but not last night.)

Anyway. The hickies. (I know. This is a lot for your kids to take in. Sorry. Ask Erica; I called her at about midnight. I called Ingie too. She was real fucking amused.) Jillian pinned me down in Chris & Eric's lawn, and Amanda Senn crawled on top and sucked on my neck for what felt like forever. I was rather pissed off at those two. :( Now I look like the biggest slut in the world, and my "whorishness" will be commemorated in my fucking graduation pictures. "Here grandma, sorry you can't be here, but we took some photos. What? No, those aren't bruises." It sucks.

Anyway. 10 drinks and no hangover. Yay for me. 10 drinks, and I still went to work afterward and wrote a coherent final. (I just re-read it, since it's due at 3; I'm not embarrassed. My only changes to it were minor.) Jilly, on the other hand, had to sleep with a plastic bucket next to her bed. :) I'm the best drinker in the world. Andrew says I didn't even look or sound drunk, except for an hour or so in the middle. And I didn't FEEL drunk either, at least not mentally. I stood up once and thought I was going to fall over, but other than that...I was good.

Good job, Sig. :)

Funny story: Ingie talked to my mom the other day and told her that we'd had a drink together at The Joynt (our hippie bar), which we had. My mother was upset, but NOT because my underage sister used a fake ID to get into the bar. She was upset because I, a responsible person of legal drinking age, went to the bar. Christ. I wasn't drinking pitchers like Ingie was; I had an 8 oz Amaretto Sour. Goddammit, Mom. I wonder what she's going to say when the bottle of Bombay goes into the fridge for the summer and it disappears in barely perceptible intervals. Christ.

OK. Back to work. Procrastination can only be carried on for so long.