Mathmatically speaking, 1 hour should never equal 12...

This weekend was epic. I think I need to write about Saturday first, but Friday and Sunday should be addressed at some point as well.

We can all take a collective groan right now that I slept with him again.

OK, done?

Let's proceed.

Well, I guess I do have to start with Friday. Hmm, this entry might be a little excessive and take me all day at work to compose (seeing as somewhere in my weekend post-mortem I actually have to do some work--bad trader, bad. i'm sending you to litigation).

So, Dru finally broke and started the 9-5 gig. Seeing as he has never had one of these strange creations called the 9-5, I invited him and Devon out for Happy Hour (being the best part of a 9-5). Devon was really hungover from a party on Thursday and took a half-day and I put him in charge of finding a bar to go to.

We went to the Russian Vodka House, which was, essentially that. No beer. No Happy Hour Specials. If you're Russian, every hour is Happy Hour. Or not really Happy. More like every hour is Let Us Drink to Forget our Fucked Up Lives Hour. Which, to be fair, is more honest than Happy Hour, since that's we're all doing anyway. But it doesn't give you a beer special, so we do one vodka drink and head out on our way.

We go to Bar 2 (that's not the name, just the order of events). Since we only have 15 minutes of true Happy Hour left, we double fist our drinks to get them in under the wire.

Here's where it all starts to get...not bad, but this is where the degenerate in all of us takes the wheel and drives us into the median.

Dru:
"The bodega on the corner is going out of business and is doing buy one, get one free deals on all the beer."

Well, that's just too amazing to pass up. And Dru has some pot, it's 7 pm and I have plenty of time to get home before Ashlee gets here.

Off to FlatPlex we go. Stopping at the bodega, of course, we each get a six pack of beer (which means we each get two--bodega deal and all) and we get all different kinds of beer and get the brilliant idea that we should have a beer-tasting night. At this point, I really don't believe anyone could go through this much beer.

I completely underestimated us.

We created some sort of drinking game, the rules of which I'm still confused about, but there was some sort of spin the bottle action pointing to the various brands of beer that were in the fridge and something about drinking them and who finishes first spins the next time. We had smoked a lot at this point that I'm drinking very very slow behind these boys and I don't think I ever catch up.

Ashlee comes around midnight. I'm pretty toasty already at this point. She walks in the room and my soul lights up.

We have the best hug I can recall in recent memory. Which is great, because although we are kind of affectionate with each other, I can't remember having that great of a hug with her. My Yang met with my Yin. Or something.

The boys see this and want us to make out. With the notable exception of Devon.

"Two vaginas?!!?? I'm going to vomit."

This is where I sort of tap out of the game. My soul mate has arrived and we proceed to talk, though I'm a little (maybe a lot) sloppy. And while events of the evening were fuzzy and Ashlee filled me in on them the next day (which I'm getting to, slowly but surely), I remember our conversation and most importantly, how focused on her face I was. We never have been apart this long since we met and I'm soaking up her presence as my liver is doing its best to soak up the alcohol.

Events of the evening besides that:
-Dru spilled salsa into the pipe which then we proceeded to try to clean out using Listerine and salt (yeah, I don't know)
-Devon dropped Dru's newly re-purchased (6 days old) cell phone into the toilet while talking to their friend Sara.
-The boys pass out together on the futon at about 3:30 am. Dru and Devon always seem to pass out together, little degenerate soul mates that they are.
-Ashlee and I talk until about 6 am. We realize we should probably head out, and soon, but I know I won't have to run into Justin since I know on Fridays he usually heads out to afterhours and sometimes that meant he'd crawl home at 9 on Saturday morning. All the same, Ashlee and I have exhausted all the resources at FlatPlex and it's time to exit, stumbling gracefully to a cab.
-But on the way out, I straddle both the boys and write "911" on their foreheads with a red Sharpie. This I had totally fogotten about until Ashlee reminded me the next day and Devon mentioned it when he crawled home the next day at like 2.
-Oh yeah, we tried to get Devon to come with us, but he oh-so-gently flailed his arms out trying to hit us as nicely as possible. All right, sweetie, but I'm writing on your forehead.
-Even though the month that we took apart isn't quite up, I break and text-message him all the same. Not anything bad. I just thought as Ashlee and I were leaving that so many nights Devon would be passed out on that futon and I would be upstairs waiting for him and the Coming Home to Me Sex. Only now it's different, yes? I'm not waiting for him upstairs and Devon is all alone, wasted and unconscious with "911" on his forehead and we're all going to bed alone. Well, I'm not totally alone. I have Ashlee.

The message:

"don't take advantage of devon"

I crawl into bed, thinking I'm probably going to regret that one in the morning. That, and the 12 hour Happy Hour I just had.

And so ends Part I of my weekend. I'll try to write about Saturday when I get a chance, since that one's a doozie.