Who Let Me Have A License, Anyway?

In order to break up the monotony of sleeping, napping, and overdosing on Xanax, I decided it would be in my best interests to join my friends for One Night In Atlantic City for Declan's birthday. The whole gang took the bus down, but since I was in New Jersey being disabled, I drove down.

We stayed at the Tropicana and I ended up having the typical AC experience: I lost money, dignity, Ross' T-shirt, and got kicked out of a nightclub for taking off my shoes and trying to lay down. (I AM NOT MEANT TO WEAR HEELS. I still can't bend one of my toes and my calves are in constant spasm.)

After a long night out (for everyone else...I was asleep by 1:38, according to my last ill-advised text message), we woke up early because checkout was at the ungodly hour of eleven AM.


Bleary-eyed and beyond exhausted from this change of pace, I got my car from the valet (I don't know how to park) and set about driving home alone.


But first, I needed McDonald's. Because, you know, I was hungover. And a Happy Meal cures that.


OR SO I THOUGHT.


I pulled up to the window and ordered the usual: Big Kids Meal with Orange Hi-C and a side of ranch dressing. I paid and received my order. Looking into the bag, I realized that they gave me a fucking BOYS toy and not a girls! Um, I may not have the most feminine of voices, BUT I AM A FEMALE ADULT BABY WHO DESERVES A GIRL TOY.


Overcome with anger, I hit the gas pedal without paying attention to any signs and ended up driving down the wrong way of a one-way street.


"FUCK!!" I screamed and jerked the car in a retarded U-Turn, while simultaneously trying to shove a fry into the ranch dressing and then into my mouth. Because what's more important? Not killing others with my likely elevated BAL and idiocy. Clearly, it's French fries!


I got in the right direction and set about opening my McNuggets while the light turned green and fellow road rage sufferers beeped at me. Startled, I jammed my foot onto the gas pedal and turned onto Atlantic Ave, on the hunt for the Atlantic City expressway. But I was still distracted, so I missed my turn (again) and ended up on some shady street, the name of which I never saw in a game of Monopoly. I pulled over to regain my composure and to open my McNuggets and STUPID action figure (I wanted to make it dance to Rihanna). I checked Google maps, looked at myself in the mirror and said "You can do this."


I got onto the expressway and was cruising at 80 when suddenly, I was cut off. I panicked and swerved into the next lane, mid-fry dip. In the wake of my speedy turn, my beloved Ranch dressing was expelled from its container and drenched me, my awesome denim shirt, and the steering wheel.


"MOTHER OF ALL HELL, YOU HAVE GOT TO BE KIDDING ME." Still driving at dangerous speeds, I attempted to clean myself off while steering the car and flipping the bird at the Granny who cut me off.


Finally, I hit the Parkway at the exact moment my hangover decided to really kick in. Forty minutes of bumper to bumper traffic later, I pulled off at the Forked River rest stop and slumped over the steering wheel, near tears and cursing the beers I drank the night before.


Then, the nausea hit. So I ran into the rest stop, flecks of fries falling out of my lap and onto the dirty asphalt.The freaks at the stop (attracted by that machine that turns pennies into NJ landmarks and reading glasses, obviously) stared at me and my dressing-filled hair as I flew into the ladies room and puked in the first stall.


I came out of the stall, to the judgmental looks of the populace, splashed some water on my face and went to Sbarro. I bought myself a breadstick and some dipping sauce and got back into the car.


An hour later, I was home. I spent the rest of the day laying in bed and singing the song I made up in the car. Entitled "Blame Ronald", lyrics include "Kill yourself, Kelly/but kill Ronald McDonald first/When that is done/Shoot yourself in the face with a gun". (Note: I may have self-esteem issues.)


Lessons from this hellacious experience? Don't drive if you might be still drunk and/or mentally unstable. Signs of this may include--dancing with your Happy Meal toy, cackling with laughter at a sign that said 'poop' instead of 'pop', calling a breadstick a "crust thing" to the cashier, and using said "crust thing" to wipe the dipping sauce off your face while half-alive at a rest stop in Southern New Jersey.

And also, don't drive when your main focus in life is trying to dip a fry into a ranch dressing packet.

And also:

NEVER GO TO ATLANTIC CITY.