Sunday, March 15, 2009

PPH Part 3- I blame the police

No worries. He didn't eat my face or anything. Turns out he's younger than me. By more than a lot. So I meander back over to my friends who have decided we should go to some house parties. Frankly, I think they only intended to help me walk off some of the morning's activities since it was barely after lunch time.

So down the street we go. Pretty sure we walked 50 miles, or at least a couple blocks. We arrived at granola's house with his fancy hardwood floors and sexy granola appeal. I was in no condition to discuss his sexy granola appeal with anyone and decided to stand near the first boss, the triathlete or Montana and nod my head about whatever they were interested in talking about. Then I ate some carrots. Sober people eat carrots. Good for me.

The problem was, by the time we left granola's house my ability to talk to strangers had diminished. I was feeling insecure and awkward. I mostly wanted to go grab lunch as the mini donuts and carrots were turning out to be less than filling as the only meals of the day. But we moved on in search of yet another party.

The police forced us off the main road and into a neighborhood. Little did they know, that quick detour would be the turning point in my entire day.

We stumbled on a party full of Montana's coworkers. I was pretty much back to my normal self. And stood close to Ken at the edge of the yard... at first.

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