Our staff Christmas party was on Sunday night and it was a pretty boozy, but typical, affair. I had pre-emptively bought new shoes, I just needed a new outfit to go with them but I was lacking inspiration so I just picked up a pseudo western-themed shirt from work that I already owned (just in a different colour).
One of the bar reps had dropped off a boat load of drink tickets earlier in the week, which I promptly pocketed, so I ended up only having to shell out $3 over the course of the night. The Archaeologist had driven us there and back, though I paid the price in the end. His car is a dumpster on wheels and I managed to soak my brand new $230 Coach flats in a pool of half-drunk Red Bull and slush – lesson learned: next time spring for a cab.
I was relatively sober considering I had blown through almost all of my 30 drink tickets but I just couldn’t shake my funk. Just as I was starting to have a good time, everyone wanted to leave. I wanted to stay longer but I also didn’t want to be a third wheel because I wasn’t drunk enough to want to play dumb, so I grudgingly left.
I got home pretty early (around 2 I think) and puttered around doing lord knows what (but it was important at the time). I slept poorly as a result of my lack of sleep and tried to contain my insomnia-induced rage the next day at work.