My thumbs are sore.
My thumbs. Are sore.
It feels as though I went on some mysterious-and-now-forgotten thumb wrestling bender this weekend.
It seems strange my thumbs should be the exhausted digits after a long weekend. I would think my pinkies to be the more likely suspects as I spent a good portion of Saturday night all ‘pinkies up’ sipping beverages at the fancy-pants lofty-type party.
The Brit was in town. He was screening his short film for some of [cough cough] the industry crowd and he invited me because:
#1. We haven’t seen each other in almost two years
#2. Ann-frank + free booze x loft downtown crammed with too cool for school arty-farties = 100% pure uncut comedy!
You want to take a pull off that?
No, you do not. Because the comedic carnage is not pretty.
I mean, one of the girls was actually wearing a beret.
A beret, for crying out loud! Somebody give me a challenge!
Anyway, after the to-do died town, we split to close some bars which was a lot of fun and that’s all you need to know about that.
Oh, and the film was actually very, very good.
And sometimes they really leave the eggs undercooked at the Hollywood Grill.
But that is it! That is all you get!
I mean, other than the fact my thumbs are sore, which means if I did actually go on some sort of forgotten championship thumb wrestling spree I sure did kick some ass. I mean, I had to. Both of my thumbs are sore, which means I am one bad-ass ambidextrous switch-hitting thumb wrestling mother – you have been warned!