Hi, Little Rabbits! In the interest of full disclosure, I'll go ahead and tell you I went to physical therapy yesterday, and I look like a battered wife. So...I'm back on the Percocet for the night. If this doesn't make sense, you know why.
Nashville was a rip-roaring good time. We tore up Broadway for 13 straight hours on Saturday. The singer at Second Fiddle couldn't play Honky-Tonk Heroes for me, but he taught me a new fave: Makeup and Blue Jeans. Y'all will love it.
We stumbled down from Second Fiddle to eat at Merchants with a friend of mine from college and some ho that a guy I know married. I know it's not nice to call a girl out like that. Her sleeveless shirt had little cat scratches cut out in the shoulders. Are you feeling me? While we were discussing her college dance team career, our least-esteemed, horse-racing industry killing, wife-beating State Senator entered the restaurant and sat directly behind us. I sent a few texts. Twinkle suggested I rack him. My Southern Baptist mother suggested I send him a drink and take pictures. If I had gotten that in time, I totally would have done it. What I did was refer to him as an m-effer in conversation. By the way, his second wife is our age. Classy looking, but our age. I'm so glad he's taken on the role as moral arbiter for our state. Thanks, Senator.
Next we wandered down to Second Avenue for a minute so the other girls could see it. There, in the Nashville Hooters, we met Tucker Max of "I Hope They Serve Beer In Hell" fame. He didn't put the moves on us. We aren't really the skank bimbo type. He did use the c-word in our presence. I'd be a little disappointed if he didn't, if you want to know the truth. He's Tucker Max; he can't be classy and normal.
We partied the rest of the night away at Tootsie's, as everyone should. I got my "What Would John Wall Do" t-shirt on the street and met his mother at the game on Sunday. The universe is pretty much as it should be.
The only thing better would have been all of y'll with me. 'Night, peeps.
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