The thing about not having a car is that it takes about a million times longer to run errands. Just simple things like going to the bank and picking up my baby-allergy medicine can take up the better part of a day, so while I have Fridays off, it’s almost always an errand day. I also had to make a return to Ulta–apparently they thought I wouldn’t notice if they subbed colors like hot pink and bronze in place of the electric blue and pure gold I ordered. Thanks for the extra hassle, guys.

Anyway, after a long day of running errands, I found myself in the area of Kent Station, and figured I’d stop into Shindig for a couple of drinks. Two absinthes later, and I was plowed, and my brain fuzzily tried to figure out why I was so drunk–I’d been giving my liver a proper workout the last few weeks, surely I’d built up a bit of a tolera——ooooooh yes, I hadn’t eaten yet that day. At all.

I walked to the Jack in the Crack in an attempt to remedy that problem, and was appalled to discover they didn’t have indoor seating. I wasn’t about to eat a burger out on the street, perhaps laying on the ground. I’m not David Hasselhoff!

I had a gift certificate in my bag for Mama Stortini’s, but I figured eating at a nicer restaurant while drunk was not a way to get maximum enjoyment out of the food, which is how I ended up on the bus, drunk, waiting to go home and make something to eat.

A young man, whom I figured for about nineteen based on the way he was wearing poorly-applied guyliner, sat down next to me and introduced himself. Fifteen minutes later, I was getting off the bus with this person to have dinner.

…I really probably need someone to whisper ‘Whoa! No! Bad idea!’ in my ear at all times. ALL TIMES. Would you like to know why?

Because at dinner, this not-nineteen-but-actually-twenty-five-year-old told me that he suffers from deep depression coupled with severe psychosis. He told me that God told him to write a novel of poetry, that he and God have these conversations quite often, and also that he was hoping I would go home with him so that perhaps he wouldn’t have to pay for the 80 dollar cab fare of the girl he had met on fling.com to come spend the night with him. No chance. I might have been stupid. I might have still been drunk. I might have been stupid drunk. I was neither that stupid nor that drunk.

So here I was, eating tortilla soup that tasted like fear, waiting for him to leap across the table and stab me because I wasn’t going home with him because God told him so. I was thankful that the waitress came to check on our table approximately every three minutes. I made my dashing (boring) escape by pulling out my phone, exclaiming ‘Oh goodness me oh my, the last bus home will be along shortly’ and ran, RAN across the street. “What are you doing tomorrow?” he called after me.

“Sooooooooooooo busy, sorry!” as I hopped on the bus and away from danger. Mostly. The guy seated in front of me kept talking about killing white people. After he got off the bus, I moved to be seated nearer the driver for the illusion of safety. Some other drunk chick was on the bus talking about how her boyfriend didn’t trust her, I one-upped her with psychosis boy, and then a kid who was trying to pass as Lil Wayne sat between us, put his arms around our shoulders and said “Ladies, tell me all about it.”

I’m thinking of walking everywhere from now on.

Yesterday, I was in no shape to go anywhere or do anything due to my ovaries punching me from the inside out, and decided what I needed was some chinese delivery. 45 minutes later, there was a knock on my door and a man who either spoke very little English or was Ashton Kutcher in disguise, punking me, was shouting at me “SOOOOO BEAUTIFUL! VERY BEAUTIFUL! VERY SO BEAUTIFUL!”

Thank you, crazy man. I have been flatter-terrified into never ordering from that restaurant again.