I like you, Betty.

You know how it is? When you’ve had just a little whiskey and just a little less food? You’re tipsy enough to be giggling, but not drunk enough to be weaving in your step? I like this place.

This is all despite the fact that I got myself out of my nice, warm bed at 3:00 this morning to go fetch a drunk friend. THREE A.M. the phone rings and I hear “Do you want the best massage of your life?” Well, yes. Yes, I do. But something tells me darling that you won’t be able to give it to me right now. Lucky for him, due to insane forces of nature, I wasn’t actually asleep yet. Lucky for me, he delivered on the massage. Still, that boy owes me like nobody’s business.

Now, I’m curled up, sans massager, with my whiskey and back to back episodes of Charm City Cakes. I’m trying not to think about the fact that tomorrow is Monday.

Holy crap. Now Billy Idol is on VH1 Classic, singing “Mony, Mony.” He doesn’t look a day older, but I feel like I’m in junior high again, and that was a long damn time ago.