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It Wasn’t Jack Daniels

Anybody who saw yesterday’s post, about how busy I was and that I was hosting a gathering last night, will not be surprised that today is Wrist to Forehead Sunday. I hesitate to share the information, though, because people always get the impression that you behaved MUCH more badly than you actually did. Admit it, some of you are picturing me dancing on tables drinking Tequila straight from the bottle. You think I ended the evening on the bathroom floor, only happy that I made it upstairs and the toilet is handy.

Well you can quit trolling YouTube for embarrassing videos of me that you can submit to World’s Dumbest (although part of me would be thrilled to be included on my favorite show). I wasn’t that bad. And I don’t feel that bad today. I’m just tired, drained and a little brain dead. Typical Sunday these days, no matter what kind of Saturday I’ve had.

But here’s a bit of half-baked philosophy for me to consider on some future Lame Post Friday: why do people so often assume that other people are more drunk than they really are? It has happened to me more than once: somebody looks at a picture of me with a big smile on my face and says, “I guess you were drunk.” Is my life so pathetic that people think the only reason I would have to smile so widely is Jack Daniels?

I’ll speculate on possible answers another time. In fact, at last night’s very enjoyable gathering, I don’t think anybody took any pictures, so I have no big wide grins to explain. And I’ve managed to type in over 200 words, so I’m back to enjoying my Sunday. I hope you are, too.

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