So the Ravens are in the Superbowl. And they’re playing the Giants. I’ll bet a lot of bookies are making a lot of money right now. If things keep going well for them, Trent Dilfer will be the worst quarterback in history to ever win the Superbowl. I wouldn’t mind that title. But it looks like I’m going to have to wait at least another year to get it.
Well, as you all possibly know already, I went to the Inner Harbor for New Years Eve with 5 guys and no chicks. Upon retrospect, that’s maybe one of the few things about that night I’d change. Anyway, we wound up in the middle of the inner harbor at exactly the stroke of midnight. I think I kissed a girl I didn’t and still don’t know. If memory serves me correctly, I think she was surprised and not necessarily pleasantly. Ah, she’ll get over it. But anyway, from there, we went to Max’s, who, unbeknownst to us, was having a private party. We had no idea of this until they didn’t charge us for drinks. I don’t remember leaving the bar. I remember talking to a girl named Shannon who Mike later said was hot. But what the hell would he know, he doesn’t remember leaving the bar either. Apparently we wrestled on the way home and I pinned him and then proceeded to shove his head into the mulch repeatedly. That’s the kind of crap you wish you could remember. Oh well. We were reminiscing about the events of the previous night (that which we could recall) at the International House of Hangovers, and Tony sarcastically interjected…
Tony: “Dustin, at one point, you were hitting on a lamppost.”
Me: “Well, she was hot.”
Mike: “Yeah, but not very bright.”
But she was probably at least 18.
And the beat goes on,
Still Standing Right Here…