Ask not for whom the ball drops, it drops for thee

You know you must have had a fun night when, the following day at noon, you're standing outside the strip bar in your pyjamas, 3" pumps, and princess tiara, banging on the door to see when you can get your credit card back (Monday, after 4:00).

12/31/2005: My sister TQ somehow convinced me to wear a little black boob-ilicious dress for our adventure New Year's Eve because it coordinated well with her sleek, backless black pant suit. Apparently, jeans and t-shirts are the southern dress code for bringing in the New Year in Alabama since we were WAY overdressed the entire evening.

We drank our beer and champagne at her mother's house until around 10:00, then decided to head to a gay bar in town. We met a couple of friendly women in line for the restroom ("Only one person may enter at a time. Strictly enforced"), but everyone there was a couple, so my drag queen sister and I kissed each other on the cheek when the ball dropped.

We drove through thick fog to the strip club and met Chad, my co-worker, in the parking lot. We stayed until last call, then headed to a "private" bar that stays open as long as anyone wants to drink (I'd never heard of this until I moved here, but apparently, as long as you are a "member" with a cheap cardboard name card, the party never ends. This has been my downfall many, many times).

More beer followed, then some guy that wanted my sister to pose with his band, bought us shots of Jagerbombs. I'd have to pinpoint this moment as the one she checked out for the evening:

It was around 6:30 a.m. by this time, so we decided to take the long way home, swinging by work so I could feed my ten stray cats. It's a bit unorthodox to be wandering around in high heels, out in the fog, with the sun coming up, carrying cat food and yelling, "Here, kitty, kitty..." but it was really important that I feed them, and don't argue with me when I'm drunk!

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