This weekend, Blair came to visit me because there was a party at my house.  Thus begins the saga/epic tale/porno of this weekend…

Saturday
Our house made about $930, and at $3 a person… that’s a shit-ton of people that came.  Blair and I pre-partied with a beer a piece and a bottle of wine.  This was her bright idea, not mine, because I was already almost at the point of being wasted.  Let me illustrate “almost”:

Actually being wasted:
Blair- (Brings plate of spaghetti from kitchen) I made this for us.
Erin- Yaaaay!  Baaafftime!  (Dumps spaghetti on own head)

The degree of wasted I was:
Blair- Want some spaghetti?
Erin- Nah, I’m good.  (Takes enormous swig of beer and puts on really smoov sunglasses)  I don’t need to eat to survive, I get all my nutrients from the finest hops and barley.

Saturday was a dance party for Blair and I- and the rest is drunken infamy- I mean history- HISTORY!

Sunday
I was leading Blair to Zebra, my piercing parlor of choice on Telegraph Ave.  When we arrived, Blair needed to step outside “for air,” and then proclaimed an urgent need to “sit down.”  Taking “this” as a sign of the apocalypse, I began the trek “home.”

“I need a place with a bathroom.”  Blair looked around anxiously.  At the crowded corner of Bancroft
OK?” “Do you need a cab?” or “What the fuck is going on here?  This is my pukin’ street!”  Least of all, me. and Telegraph, before the light could change, Blair opened her mouth and vomited in the street.  After crossing the street, she did it again… silently opened her mouth and expelled buckets of puke.  This was the most hardcore, punk-rock thing I had ever seen.  No one bothered to stop and ask her “Are you

After that highlight, Will wanted to rent Kung Fu, so off to Blockbuster it was.

The rest of the day was yak-free.