Oh, MAN. I have to stop listening to the voices in my head. Especially when those voices say, "Hey, Jared's got a point, we should go to Hooters."

At 9pm on a Sunday night.

Let's set the stage: Sarah leaves town at 4pm to spend the next few days in Dover. I decide to celebrate this fact with 1 or 8 gin-and-tonics. Jared, who came up for the Blue-Gold Game on Saturday, is present. We play a few video games, watch some TV, when it happens.

Hooters commercial.

And the seed is sown. I hastily run a razor over my face (with no shaving cream, just water, which turned out to be one of the first mistakes), rub on some deodorant, and put on my muscle shirt. (Don't ask. Just . . . don't.) The actual visit was uneventful; we had some brews, some wings, some laughs with the waitress, and headed home. Jared was remarkably sober (Oh right, he hadn't been pouring Tanqueray down his throat for 6 hours!), so we made it home with no incidents other than the fact that singing "Insomniac," and hitting the 4-measure F# at the end, is not recommended by the American Dental Association.

I then went to bed, entered oblivion, and dreamt of embarrassments past.

I don't think I actually woke up. I still have the sense of dreaming, although really it's more of a nightmare, as I feel as if somebody is pounding a golden railroad spike into the base of my skull. And then peeing on it.

I had forgotten to activate my alarm last night, so I awoke this morning at approximately 9:45 when Discover card called to tell me they wanted to increase my credit limit (from $6500 to $7000 . . . wow! Color me honored!). Luckily I only missed about half of my Monday morning meeting, and almost nobody else was there either; I'm not sure why, as I didn't see any of them at Hooters last night.

Not that I'd have remembered if I did.