Trouble, brewed

Hurricane Parish is due to roll into Penn Station around 11 am tomorrow. I will do my damnedest not to wake up married or in jail or on a railroad train headed west come Sunday morning, but I make no promises. A girl can only protest so much.

The drunken haircuts, however, are inevitable.

(Lame words in this post: damnedest, Hurricane Parish

Totally redeemed by: cute boy, tattoo of an atom)