National Pasta Day
“Passa's ready babe,” your girlfriend slurred. Judging by the way her heals clicked unsteadily on the small gallery kitchen floor, the way her gray skirt was hiked up to show her white panties, her blue satin button up hung off one shoulder displaying a load of bra less cleavage, and her slightly disheveled locks, and half mast, glassy eyes, you knew she was drunk. High too juging by the smoke from the bong in the back of the kitchen. It was easy to guess how she got in such a state-the recipe called for half a cup of wine, so she drank the rest of the bottle. When that was empty, she opened another. Somewhere along the line, she decided to have a little weed. What was less clear was why? “Wow hun-looks great? Whatsthe occasion?” you asked-it was not uncommon for her to get drunk, or cook, or both, but you still had to ask. “Iss national passa day,” she explained.
