Kiss Me, I'm [BLANK]

As I was walking back from CVS today with a toothbrush in one hand and some deodorant in the other, a group of girls and guys dressed in green passed me by. Well, stumbled by. Tripped-over-themselves-and-fell-on-the-sidewalked by.

One of the guys, wearing a shirt that said "Kiss me, I'm Irish-ish" made eye contact with me, pointed in my direction and shouted "HEY. You. Nice... Nice..."

Then he paused. You could see his neurons firing, his brain struggling to bridge the gaps between synapses in an effort to think of a witticism that would make his group laugh at my expense.

"Nice... face."

I nodded and kept walking.

It's St. Patrick's Day in Chicago. I spent the day lounging around my apartment. I read some books. Took a nap. Did some Rosetta Stone. Had a glass of wine. Made dinner. Salmon and a baked potato, for those who are curious.

I like to drink as much as the next Irishman, but St. Patty's is on some next level ish. Things get out of hand. I don't like that. I like having things under control, in my fingers, nestled between my palms like a parakeet that I'm trying to keep calm.

That was my attempt at poetry. I'm trying to be poetic. Is it working? I hope so. Fake it till you make it. Am I right, ladies?

A few years ago, Delma and I went out with some friends for St. Patrick's Day. It was a fun time. We went to a few bars, drank a few beers, ate a few tacos (traditional Irish fare). Then we walked home and fell asleep in our queen-sized bed. At 3AM, we woke up to the sound of grunting and moaning.

For a second, I thought our place was haunted. Then I remembered that Delma's brother was staying with us so I thought he was watching videos online. The moaning intensified.

"Don't stop. Don't stop!"

Then I thought Delma's brother was watching porn online.

But the moaning got even louder and then I heard something kick our window. We lived in a garden unit back then. 'Garden unit' is a fancy term that realtors use to refer to basements. But because we lived in a basement, we had an excellent view of the sidewalk outside.

I took a peek out the window and saw a pair of jeans around a dude's ankles. I looked up and got an excellent view of his firm buttocks, clenching and thrusting forward. In front of him was a young lady with a green skirt hiked over her back, her arms pressed up against the wooden fence that surrounded our building. I had never seen that guy before. Or maybe I had and I just didn't recognize him from that angle.

"Keepgoingkeepgoingkeepgoing," she shouted.

I turned to Delma. Delma shrugged. I went out into the living room and looked at Delma's brother. Delma's brother shrugged. The moaning and grunting stopped after a few minutes and we all went back to sleep.

The following morning, I found a plastic green hat, some beads and a $20 bill outside by the wooden fence. Ghostly remnants of our nocturnal visitors. The only reminder of a night of decadence and indulgence. Hangovers dissipate. Memories fade. But beads and a plastic green hat? Those are forever.

St. Patrick's Day, y'all.