Friday, I invited some colleagues over and we sat and had a few beers on our patio, talked about the office. Afterwards, we all went to an adios house party thrown by Lys, our most recent and now departing Mexican intern. In that span of about seven hours, by my count, I had a total of three domestic beers, and between two and three shots. It turns out that four drinks is probably my new line that should not be crossed.
Saturday was not a total loss: it was a reminder of how wonderful it is being not deathly ill. I can't remember being so nausiously hungover ever. Sunday was mosly recovering from Saturday, although I made breakfast and dinner for Saori and I. Welcome to 30. (Actually, I should point out I was not the oldest one at the party: two guys there were a few years older than me.)
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Saori and I started looking at wedding rings in Stuttgart and didn't get too far. For one, we could see the dollar signs accumulating in...
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