Happy Hour begins at an old favorite: Club DeVille. The weather is perfect for patio drinking: Killa Gorilla, cool and dry. It’s almost like we live in California! It’s perfect for my hair, which is looking fabulous.

I digress. Our happy hour group is extensive: people from my work, people from our agency, friends, some people I recognize at other tables but can’t figure out how. And then some random decides to buy us all Amstel Light. And I mean ALL of us. He’s buying like 100 drinks.

I lean over to my new friend Hurry. “Dude, I’m worried about this drink. Men don’t just buy drinks for the entire bar. I mean, men will send over drinks for women…but this guy is buying drinks for everyone. Does that mean he’s our pimp?”

“It could be,” Hurry agrees.

“Oh well. You can’t look a gift beer in the neck, right?”

“It’s Friday and I’m not loaded and it’s almost nine,” Hurry says sadly.

“It sounds like you need another Amstel Light.”

People are getting antsy as usual and so it’s time to go to Mugshots. Uh-oh. Is my picture up on the wall? Once we arrive, I’m a stumbling fool. Too many damn steps for drunk people if you ask me. Of course, no one asked me.

This bar is boring me. It’s time for pizza.

“Okay, ladies,” I proclaim, teetering onto the sidewalk with my slice. Pizza has never looked so good. It appears I forgot to eat dinner. Shit. No wonder I’m so drunk. “You know I’m a vegetarian,” I slur. “And I love vegetables. But let me just say this: broccoli does NOT belong on a pizza.”

At the time, I feel like this is a profound and important discovery.

We hit Logan’s for old-times’ sake and damn if I’ve forgotten you’ve got to specify the size of beer you want. The bartender delivers three gigantic mugs to us.

“Shit. I guess I have to drink this.” I mean, really, because I wasn’t already nearly comatose with alcohol. As evidenced by my confidence in my match-making skills. Killa Gorilla has set her sights on a guy we’ll call Bearded Mystery. I sashay over to his friend and inquire about Bearded Mystery’s girl. Apparently she’s the “crazy” ex-girlfriend. Ah, right. Aren’t we all?

When she comes over to bum a cigarette off of Killa Gorilla, we all look at each other and practically hold our breath. Is she going to go off half-cocked and crazy? Nothing untoward happens, though, and she returns to her group.

“This is bullshit,” I grumble, and go back over to Bearded Mystery’s Friend. The Friend’s Girlfriend is looking pretty annoyed with me.

“Don’t worry—I’m not trying to hit on your guy,” I assure her, but nonetheless, she kisses his arm while we talk. Insecure much, sister?

There’s no more cute left in the bar so we decide to head back to DeVille in a pedicab. Suddenly the temperature has dropped 20 degrees and the three of us bitch non-stop about how cold it is. While complimenting our lady pedicab driver.

“Your calves are awesome!”

She can’t wait to drop us off. Oh my God. It’s like déjà vu. Back at DeVille, where we started out. And now I’ve progressed from sort of drunk to super tanked.

“Hey! That guy looks like Fabio. I’m going to stand behind him. You take a picture.” Gigi bounds over to the guy and strikes a pose behind him. Damn this camera phone. It doesn’t do either of them justice.

“I’m going to flirt with the handicapped,” Killa Gorilla says, and takes off. Gigi and I relax in the airport seating and watch people.

“It’s Fabio again!” I exclaim and whip out my camera phone for another try. “Hey, you—come here!”

Fabio takes a glance at us and just keeps going. Gigi and I practically fall out of our seats laughing. It’s not often that the menz run from gorgeous and sassy chicks. He must have known we didn’t really have pure intentions.

Uh-oh. There’s a big dude sitting on my right sipping a vodka tonic. “Hey, ladies, my name is Dumb German Boy.”

Hello, Dumb German Boy. I think I’m glaring at him in my drunken stupor. Yup, ladies and gentlemen, I’m just sauced enough to be belligerent.

“Do you think you’re cooler than me?” DGB asks.

I’m still regarding him over the rim of a Tecate. Yes, I think. “No.”

“You think you’re pretty cool, though, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“What is it with you American woman always thinking that men are hitting on you?”

“I didn’t say you were hitting on me.”

“Would you like some vodka tonic?” DGB holds his glass to me.

“No. But if I were you, I wouldn’t offer your drink to women if you don’t want them thinking you’re hitting on them.”

He’s staring at me. “Your mouth is too big.”

Whatever. I haven’t heard this particular insult since high school. “That’s because he’s picturing your mouth and his…well, you know,” Gigi tells me when I relay my annoyance.

“I think I’m done here,” I say to DGB and get up to find Killa Gorilla.

There’s some drunken ramblings with my buddy Cigarette Lover. Hey, he loves the site! My recall about our conversation beyond that is pretty damn low, and…God, I’m housed. What the hell? I collect Gigi and Killa Gorilla and we head for the door. Killa Gorilla has developed a little crush on Cigarette Lover and it looks like DGB has developed a thing for me.

“Don’t go!” he pleads in his stupid German accent as we leave.

Nice work, DGB. I really had no idea you were hitting on me.