informer, you no say daddy me snow me i'll go blame, a licky boom boom down

This morning I did something I'd always sworn I would never ever do in a million badillion years. That something starts with a "c" and sort of rhymes with "novocaine." It was fun. My worldview has changed, and I think for the better. Though staying up all night after work and then returning to work in the a.m. wasn't the most brilliant idea I've ever had, my wonderful 22-year-old boss and her rich Cornell undergrad best friend/enabler came in for a five hour champagne brunch to make me feel like I wasn't the only glass-spilling asswipe. Also, though I don't really recall, B the Bartender and I had some sort of conversation about the post-making out weirdness. I imagine it went something like this: "We're cool right? Are we cool? Because it's really not a big deal and I just want everything to be normal and I think you're great and I want to be able to just hang out and it should be ok right? We're cool ok? Awesome let's go eat old pizza crusts and drink the box of Franzia in the fridge." It was also revealed this morning that the incredibly, amazingly good-looking hippie chef, with whom I want to have sex almost as much as I crave his smoked turkey, melted cheddar, garlic mayo and bacon sandwiches, is getting divorced from his wife of eight months. Uh oh.