I realized too late that I should have amended my post from yesterday to read, "But I will be sure to get into a bar fight at the French bistro, just to keep with the Irish spirit." Ha ha.
No worries though, Saint Patrick punished me from the Great Beyond (or, like, wherever saints live) by smiting me with horrible sickness for eating a dinner mostly of butter, cheese and red meat on a day designated by God Himself as time to eat corned beef and green beer and then puke on the street corner.
(Shoutout to the lady wretching on 33rd last night -- at first I thought you were a crack addled street person, but then I saw your green shamrock anntenae headband -- you go, sister, with your Irish self!)
(Also, serious shoutout to the wacky drunk chick on the Bergen Line last night, you were hys-TER-ical. I hope that ancient, balding British guy you were incoherently hitting on had sex with you! And, uhm, that the beer goggles lasted that long for you, sweetie.)
Anyway, back to slowly dying of butter. When will I learn???