Pretending To Be Irish

After dealing with the illogical setup of the Atlanta airport and my flight being delayed for "missing equipment" (yes, I found that perturbing as well), I arrived back in Manhattan, dropped my bags off in my apartment, and went straight to the bar to meet B so we could pretend to be Irish and celebrate St. Paddy's Day.

Holidays people celebrate for the sole purpose of having an excuse to drink have always fascinated me. But hey, I'm not complaining; I'll drink beer and wear shamrocks if it means there will be hoards of cute, drunk boys out on a Monday night.

So in the spirit of the holiday, B and I got drunk and I started talking to a cute boy in a green sweater at the bar (St. Paddy's Day Boy, sorry for the lack of creativity, but I am starting to lose track, so I need descriptive names). I ended up hanging out with him and his work friends for the remainder of the night (after B ditched me, that's right, guilt trip time).

They were a fun, entertaining group of guys, and I gave St. Paddy's Day Boy my phone number (as per usual), but I felt slightly melancholic at the end of the night because 1) I was exhausted from the nonstop partying and 2) they were just another group of immature boys just like all the other groups of immature boys I have been wasting time with just like the thousands of groups of immature boys that exist in bars throughout New York City.

Hmmmm rereading that last sentence I realized that it sounds pretty bitter, which I am not, just tired and with a slight cold from all the recent partying and traveling. I am going to go rest and work on my attitude.