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Last year I spent most of St. Patrick’s Day comatose in a Benadryl-induced nap. This year was eerily similar, although I did manage to squeeze in a bike ride and park picnic with my foxy man-friend before my allergies overtook me. I think that’s a victory, albeit a small one. St. Patrick’s Day, for Chico anyway, seems to me to be a “holiday” that people use as an excuse to don their gay (see also: festive) apparel and get as drunk as possible. Although these days I don’t set out with inebriation as my goal, this wasn’t always the case. Chico is a town where it’s easy to be drunk. It’s relatively flat, the booze is cheap, and the bars are plentiful.

I’m going to confess something to you, dear reader. Something embarrassing. Last summer, in a spree of indulgence, I imbibed past the point of reason. I could walk without cause for concern, and my ability to articulate my mind wasn’t by any means hindered. In hindsight it was apparent that my powers of reasoning were considerably compromised. I was sitting in a downtown establishment and I realized that I needed to not be in public anymore. In short, I reached the moment where I could either pass the point of no return or escort myself home, eat some popcorn and Siracha, and fall asleep watching RuPaul’s, Drag Race.

I took myself outside with the intention of hailing a cab. I stuck my hand over-enthusiastically in the air when I spotted what I thought was a pedicab. Not my first choice, but it would suffice. It was only after the bicycle operator had come to a complete stop and regarded me with an inquisitive look that I realized I hadn’t hailed a cab, or even a pedicab. It was one of the individuals who raid the trash cans around town, then haul their findings in makeshift carts, attached to the back of their bikes.

I was a woman on a mission. Undeterred, I asked him how much he wanted to deliver me home. Waving off his shrieks of “good god woman, at least let me make a run home to empty out the cart,” I clambered into his tiny vessel constructed out of chicken wire and plywood, and asserted my address in the general direction of his ears. It wasn’t until I actually arrived home, paid the man, and made it inside my house that the ridiculous nature of my transportation occurred to me.

In any case, in a move that would be sure to prompt more embarrassing stories if I wasn’t closer to 30 rather than 21, the Huffington Post is reporting that California Senator, Mark Leno, has introduced a new bill that would allow Californian bars and restaurants to serve alcohol until 4AM. The argument is that the extension would allow for more economic growth and boost jobs. Personally, I fully support the extension of hours. Hobo cart rides for everyone!

image source: buzzfeed.com

Zooey Mae has been working as a writer monkey for Synthesis Weekly since 2007. Her favorite things include (but are not limited to), Jeffrey Brown, bubble wrap, Craig Thompson, pillow forts, receiving handwritten letters, and whiskey. She spends her free time stockpiling supplies for the impending robot Apocalypse and avoiding eye contact with strangers.