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Saturday night I had some party to go to, blah blah, just a casual get-together with friends. When I was a bit late, I got this text message:

"PLEASE, PLEASE GET HERE SOON. PLEASE!!! PLEASE."

So I race over, inasmuch as one can race on the subway, to find four very enthusiastically inebriated friends. They were drinking Irish car bombs in honour of St. Patrick's Day, which involve Guiness, transmission fluid, and Irish cream. I had one. Half of one, actually, and I spent all of Sunday with heartburn like a fist in my chest.

So I lay low with my friend from YYC, of all places, and we made tacos and watched movies in the apartment she was housesitting. It's on the 29th floor, and has windows from floor to ceiling, so you can walk towards the city like you're going to levitate over it. In fact, it overlooks my building from a block away. Surreal.

By the way, I reeeeeeeely need my own apartment.