More than once I have described myself as the unfortunate marriage of Liz Lemon and Bridget Jones. Whether or not you’d agree with that assessment depends on the circumstances in which you’ve witnessed my episodic awkwardness and clumsiness.
This past weekend, I experienced this classic Bridget Jones moment albeit Brooklyn-style.
Fortunately I was able to do an Irish goodbye after three beers. I escaped my building’s roof deck, went back to my apartment and played All By Myself.*
*Not really.
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