Cell Phone Revelations

I love how your cell phone can reveal all about a drunken night, especially if you tend to forget minor details like weird boys in train stations. So last night I went to d.b.a. with Courtney for Eliza's b-day. I def forgot my ID, so I had to traipse back to Brooklyn, therefore, taking two hours out of my night. So I drank a Dasani bottle full of boxed wine on the trip back, so as not to lag behind my peers in all their drunken glory.

Text Messages:
From Courtney, 11:06 p.m. HO. I WANT BEER PONG!
From Courtney, 11:41 p.m. UR FUNNY! PONG!

Recent Calls:
11:26 p.m. Michelle to me.
Midnight. Curtis to me.
12:44 a.m. Me to Neil.
3:19 a.m. Me to Curtis. No answer.
3:52 a.m. Me to Joe Cell. No answer.
5:17 a.m. 347-615-XXXX to me. Missed call.

Voicemail:
5:17 a.m. "Yo Tina, this is Ky from the train station. You were pretty hammered. Anyway, I was wondering if you'd want to get some bloody marys at a bar on Sunday—if you're not too hungover. It'll be fresh. Call me. Peace out."

Ha. So needless to say, Courtney and I went to The Big Easy around 1 a.m., where I proceeded to kick some ass at a game of beer pong. A big bearded man bought me an Irish car bomb, which is about where things get fuzzy. It was at this point where I launched into my drunk dialing frenzy and then met Ky, apparently. Why can't I just say no when a stupid ghetto boy asks for my digits? Life would be much easier. Because he definitely called me again an hour ago from a different phone number (Trying to trick me! Jerk.) and told me about a really fresh party in the city this Friday. No thanks, Ky. You're just not fresh enough for my flavor.