The night I met the guy that I’ve referred to as Billy, I couldn’t keep my alcohol down. Not because I was vomiting — but because I was retarded. First, as we were dancing, I received a text message. I had been holding my Malibu Bay Breeze and my iPhone in one hand. When I saw my screen light up, I turned my wrist to get a better view of the message. In doing so, a little thing called gravity kicked in and half of my drink spilled out of my cup and onto the floor. Or what I thought was the floor.
No. I spilled half my drink on this guy’s foot. FML. We both looked down and back up at each other slowly. Me, with my jaw dropped.
“I am so sorry,” I said, and ran over to the bar to get a napkin for him.