Oh, me? Yeah, no, I live at Metronome...

So, I'm just gonna come out and say it:  last weekend wasn't my classiest.  I'm going to share my miserable story in hopes that something good will come out of it: your entertainment.  So now I invite you all to bask in the glory of my shame and hopefully get a laugh or two out of my foolishness.  Now, to many this is may be obvious but on the off chance that you did not know, one should never drink tequila on an empty stomach.  It's just never a good idea. Needless to say, this is precisely how my night began.

But it's not so much how my night began but rather how my night ended that sent me on one of the worst journeys of my life.  I woke up to my wonderful Saturday morning alarm at 9:30. My first thought was something along the lines of...What. The. Fuck. Which then led to: Why is my alarm going off? Why are there nail clippers in my hair?   And most importantly, who wants to drive me to get a bagel from the Bakery?

All of those questions were answered in about fifteen minutes when my darling roommate and her boyfriend lept into bed with me and told me that when they got home I was already asleep (aka passed out), my alarm is going off because I'm supposed to drive to New Jersey in 3 hours, there are nail clippers in my hair because shit happens and they are more than happy to accompany me to the bagel bakery. All of these things are sufficient answers for me and I smile, relieved that a night that ended in black out is shaping up to be a relatively decent morning...

That is... until I instinctively reach for my phone. Where's my phone? No, seriously guys, I sleep with it right next to me. Where's my phone? WHERE THE FUCK IS MY PHONE!?

Fuck.

I've lost my phone and I've found shame in it's place. My phone. My beloved, darling, dear iPhone is gone. Along with my ID (to which at this point- I say good riddance- clearly I'm not responsible enough to have one). But my phone?  Why God WHY  my phone?  I'm heartbroken and ashamed.  And now, I've found my hangover.

Two bagels later (one veggie sausage egg and cheese, one veggie cream cheese--gotta get those greens!) and I feel worse.  The buzz I woke up with has faded into a distinct hangover and the reality that is my phone is lost begins to set in.

"You know what you have to do," says my wise roommate Kath.

"I don't wanna."

"Too bad.  Rule #76 No excuses.  Play like a champion."

I was in no condition for champing anything but I did what she told me to.  I began my journey of shame.  And it all started at Ake's Place.  That wonderful downtown bar that is quickly becoming a hotspot for 30-something-year-old men to creep on 20-something-year old girls.  I take a deep breath, and with sunglasses on, I walk in.  There are far too many people in this bar for 1:00 in the afternoon.  They're apparently re-doing the whole place.  "Um.  Hi,"  I say to the bartender.  It's the same guy from last night.  Greeeeaaat.  "Yeah, I, um, I think I left my phone here last night..."  "Oh," he says enthusiastically, "Yeah, is this it, an iPhone with a purple case?"  SWEET RELIEF YES!!! "Yes, oh my god it is!"  It's too good to be true I think!  And, unfortunately, I am correct.  It indeed is too good to be true.  There was, in fact, more than one drunken fool at Ake's last night and she too lost her purple iPhone.  Damnit.  I'm extremely disappointed but the bartender assures me this happens all the time and to check back later.  Just as I'm about to leave...I remember something else.  My jacket.

"Hey did you guys find my jacket?"

SUCCESS!!!  They have my jacket.  1 for 2.  I'll take it.  I turn to leave when I hear what no girl ever wants to here, "Hey!  Hey, it's you!  How the hell are ya?!"  I turn and find myself face to face with a guy I wouldn't have picked out of a line up.  I reiterate: greeeeaaaat.   He then proceeds to tell me I was a "hoot" and that he thinks after I left Ake's I went to Nectar's.  Now this is problematic for a number of reasons:  1.  I have zero recollection of this and 2.  the bouncer at Nectar's haaaates me.  HATES me.

Luckily (I use that word loosely) for me, Nectar's is closed.  Time to leave for Jersey and hopefully the dirty work will now fall to my roommates. (I know that's unfair but I'd do it for them and my pride had really taken a beating by this point). I call Nectar's when it opens and hooray for me! they have my phone and my ID.  My darling roommate is kind enough to go pick it up for me and also kind enough to get the rest of the deets from my night.

Apparently, there was no effing way they were letting me into Metronome (shocking) but one of the bouncers (not the one that despises me, obvs.) was kind enough to try and call me a cab home.  However, to do so, he needed to know where I lived.  So he (allegedly) asked me where I lived so he could tell the cab driver and here we arrive at the title of my post. Where did my drunken brain decide I lived?  Metronome.  Ah, the wonders of alcohol.  Apparently, I was dead set on dancing to some 90's music and would not go down without a fight.  So I repeated informed him that I, in fact, lived at Metronome.

So kiddies, learn from my many, many mistakes and just eat some pasta before partying, don't party so hard, always remember your jacket and think of your phone as an extension of your hand.  Because no one wants to be the person I was, especially because this story is quickly becoming one of my roommates' faves.  When anyone asks me where I live, my roommates love to jump in and say, "Oh her?  She lives at Metronome."