Last night, we stood in line for an hour and forty minutes to get into Mick E. Fynn's. With our feet freezing and our patience waning, we tried to keep up the conversation. Disgruntled, I commented that I don't get the big deal with St. Patrick's Day. It's just another excuse to get drunk, after all. And unless you're actually Irish or of Irish descent,* isn't any day ending in "y" an excuse to get drunk?
These are the classy socks Court picked up at the Hasty Mart when she lost feeling in her toes.
"I heard that we're celebrating some guy driving all these snakes off an island," Jonny responded when I expressed my disgust at not being able to get into my favourite pub for a pseudo holiday. All the drunken screaming girls in line who were wearing nothing more than mini-skirts and thick layers of makeup for warmth didn't even know what they were drinking for.
I laughed at Jonny. "And by guy, you mean St. Patrick?"
"Yah, either him or St. Valentine's drove some snakes off an island. I always get those two confused."
This made me laugh some more. "It was St. Patrick. St. Valentine wrote some letters in jail or something."
We laughed at our own ignorance, and then I asked jokingly, "Hey Jonny, wanna know that name of 'that island'---Ireland."
And then we gave up on the lineup and went across the street to an empty hotel bar. I'm no longer celebrating days dedicated to saints.
*For instance, if I was out with Jacob on St. Patrick's Day, that's just a whole other story!