Run, Forrest, Run.

Five of my fabulous friends ran 10 miles around Narragansett for the Blessing of the Fleet on Friday night. I saw this as an opportunity to get blackout drunk (as if I need an excuse). The weather was insane... torrential downpours, wild thunder and lightning (perfect opportunity to check thunderstorm off the fucket list- where were you Art Vandelay?) Kitty-Cat and I went over and watched from BR' s front porch and drank some bubbly...and later, vodka. BR killed it and rocked 8 1/2 minute miles in her spectactular neon splashed spandex. I love the 80's.

Sidenote: BR (See BR is a buff babe for more about her) is looking fllyyy these days. Crossfit is doing wonders for her already ultra-toned body. Wish I had that kind of dedication. In an effort to keep her reading this, I am going to do something I vowed never to do- change her name (she is not a fan and I think she deserves something more creative). I should have dubbed her Unicorn from the get-go, as that is the name she was given when she moved to little Rhody due to her paradoxical stunning good looks paired with ginger locks. So BR, your wish is my command... you are now Unicorn.

Unicorn was pumped to meet Kitty-Cat live in the flesh and before you knew it, blog talk turned to sex talk. Unicorn (sheltered in her youth) informed us all that she didn't know what sex was until she saw Titanic. Initially I found this hysterical, but then realized that I am two years her senior and was also 11 when I first learned about the natural act of fornication. My 14 year old neighbor told me that he put his penis inside the blonde girl down the street when he was 10. My mom wasn't thrilled when I came home that day telling her that Bloomdog told me about sex (I really screwed myself there-no pun intented- because she was always tentative to let me hang out with him, and he used to throw wild parties in high school). We left Unicorn's beautiful beach house to trudge through the swamp and meet Art Smart and her man/running buddy Monty Python to congratulate them for their efforts. Coast Guard was pret-ty packed with some old Gansett friends of mine, but I knew I had to abort before it was no longer ok to drive.

Back in the city by the sea, KC and I meet YB and his young boy posse at Studio (who goes to Studio mid summer?). Let the blackout commence. My drunk grinding did win me an award from Enrique Burnham (see below).

Per usual, Kitty-Cat was into late night Dominoes and ordered the moment we stepped out of the Stud. That is the last thing I remember. I awoke around 6 am on the couch. Facts I gathered the following morning: apparently KC and I passed out immediately after making contact with the couch. YB paid for the pizza and enjoyed a few slices while sitting in between us sleeping beauties (?). He snapped a photo of this. My ass looks large and in charge, but I feel the need to share anyway. Hilarious.

This picture, along with my fierce hangover that lasted well into Saturday evening, begs the question: At what age is it no longer socially acceptable to black out? Feast your eyes on what I was working with at 9am Saturday. What...a hot mess.