Ugh.

It was several.

I am not hungover in the traditional sense (yet. It could be one of those sneaky late-breaking hangovers, we'll see), but I am very tired and my voice is shot to hell.

While I had a great time waxing philosophical with the Lovely A about how we don't really smoke anymore--over half a pack of American Spirits--I am now in no way prepared to face my day, and all the lunacy that it holds in store.

I'm hoping a trip to McDonald's before rehearsal will fix that.

This morning an Irishman woke up alone

I think I might have to fire my friends.

Really, by now they ought to know better than to leave me alone with any marginally attractive man with an accent. Particularly in an establishment that serves alcohol. Which is how I found myself staring at the ceiling somewhere around 4:30am thinking "you're in your mid-30s, you really should be better at this...."

And so, dear readers, when I awoke around 8am, cold, needing the bathroom, and still somewhat drunk, I was faced with two options: get dressed, go to the bathroom, come back and go back to sleep, or get dressed, go to the bathroom, and leave before the Irishman woke up.

I bet you can guess which I chose.

My (dubious) luck ran out, however, when I discovered the bathroom to be occupied. As I had no intention of sticking around to introduce myself to whoever was in there, I crossed my fingers that my hair didn't completely betray the previous evening's activities--decided that, in actual fact, I really didn't care--and quietly made my escape.

I've decided to chuck the phrase "Walk of Shame," as only once that I can recall have I actually experienced anything like shame during one of these desperate bids for freedom. Today, for instance, it was more like annoyance that I had to walk half a mile and catch a subway before I was allowed to go back to sleep.

Slipping and falling in a puddle in the subway station was really the coup de grace for the morning.