Continuing my apparent mission to destroy my liver and my soul, last night Katsumi and I ventured into Central Square to catch J Majik at the Phoenix Landing. To tell you the truth, I’m pretty worn out from all this festival-going, Tuesday-night partying, carrying on and madness, but, as they say, I can sleep when I’m dead.

We got to the Phoenix around 10:30, probably, and Katsu promptly procured our drinks. Lenore was spinning, warming up the crowd, and we took a spot next to this pole-thing that has a little shelf where you can rest your beverage. I like to keep an eye on my drink when I’m out, so the bev-shelf is key. Katsu fetched round two just before J Majik when on, mine a Ketel One and soda that tasted like rotten ass. It might have been the worst drink I’ve ever had, and that’s saying a LOT. Some time later, my husband made one final trip to the bar, offering me an unasked-for vodka and Red Bull. I hate vodka and Red Bull. HATE. But I’m not one to let vodka go to waste.

By this time the place was packed, and some guys next to us had started an impromptu break dancing circle. They kept kicking me and bumping into me and shit, so I wormed my way to the stage and took a front-and-center position where I could rest my noxious beverage on the speakers. As I’m putting the drink down, this guy in a red shirt gives me a look like I stole his dance-zone, and instead of being a slag I smiled waved him ahead. He was standing between me and my drink for maybe three minutes before I squeezed back around and resumed line-of-sight contact with the cocktail. The rest of the set was mind-blowingly fantastic, but this guy kept giving me all these sideways glances, like there’s some funny joke going on and I’m the punchline.

Then I started to feel wasted. Like REALLY wasted. Like, “seven shots of jager and some PBR tallboys” wasted. And was it my imagination, or had I seen that guy DO something near my drink when he was standing in front of me? I mean, there were strobe lights and shit so it would have been hard to tell, but I thought i saw him like, wave his hands over the top of it or something, or maybe touch my straw ever so slightly. Stirring it?

Every now and then, I get into a militant, man-hating drunk. One great example was this trip to DC where, after a night at the bars, my sister and her friends and I wound up in some random dude’s house where we were offered shots of Wild Turkey. I took two, one for me and one for Megan, thinking that my valor would spare her irreparable damage. Then Megan disappeared, and convinced myself that some frat-bro had spirited her away and was taking advantage of her weakened state. I went from 0 to 60 in the blink of an eye, screaming obscenities at our “host”, all six feet two hundred and twenty pounds of him, and I was ready to start throwing punches when Megan emerged, bleary-eyed and wholly unharmed, from the bathroom.

This was the particular flavor of last night’s intoxication, and, in the heat of things, I’d be DAMNED if I was going to let some fucking sketchball prick ruin my time. I slammed the last bit of my drink and danced till the very end of the set, feeling righteous and vindicated.

When the music ended, so did my composure. I forgot to close the bar tab, took off my shoes on the way back to the car , and ashed my cigarette onto the floormats the whole way home, not even bothering to raise an arm out the window. Katsumi was at the wheel, and I don’t think he believed my tale of woe until I passed out somewhere over the Tobin Bridge. The last thing I remember is banging through the door to our apartment, cursing out our cat, and hurling my $500 Prada glasses under the television. I collapsed, facedown and lead-limbed, on the futon, and woke up some hours later in my bed.

So, anyway, that was cool. Today my head feels like it’s been run through with an ice pick and stuffed with mothballs. It’s 7pm, I still feel absolutely shitwrecked. And, back at the Phoenix, my bar tab is still open.