Bubbles and I went to Quinlan's late last night, where I instructed her to park her keys and put her car in her purse because we were going to drink ourselves into cab-condition. There is nothing more pathetic than ditching my Honda in a parking ramp, only to find myself whipping around in the backseat of a cab at 2:31 a.m. with a BAL of .07. Pa-thetic.
The night was relatively uneventful. We befriended a 24-year-old feminist, who was unusually apologetic about the fact that she was wearing a sundress and heels and that she was upset over a non-boyfriend sort with whom she had been romantic, who wasn't treating her in the way non-boyfriends with whom you have been romantic should treat you. Common courtesy, she said.
Bubbles and I were the last fools on Michigan St. in the middle of the night, and had fulfilled our mission. We came back to my apartment, drank a beer and cooed over Tori Spelling. Then we called Frenchy, who lives a few blocks away, and raided his liquor supply. The night ends with me, per usual, cramming a bunch of his beers in my purse, and Bubbles and I limping back to my apartment. She barfed and passed out mid-sentence on our couch; I sent a bunch of embarrassing text messages to the love of my life.
Today: Social shame.
I can't pinpoint exactly what I'm embarrassed about. The fact that my own voice is ringing in my ears doesn't help. I'm not proud of the kleptomania ... I'm going to have to wrap Frenchy's beer in a Whole Foods bag, drop it on his doorstep, ring the doorbell and run. All I know is that I feel shame and agoraphobia -- which is why it is always better for me to go out on a Friday than Saturday. More time to rock myself in the fetal position before returning to civilization.
I'm told other people get social shame, too. This is surprising to me. I rarely see other people doing things that would induce social shame.