Rise and shine for your morning workout! A jog around the neighborhood is exactly what you need to balance out a day of bangers, mash and green food coloring.
Be serious. Hit snooze and give up on New Year's resolutions and Lenten promises like the rest of us.
Actually wake up this time because your one remotely Irish and/or redhead friend who is obsessed with St. Patrick's Day is blowing up the group text.
You know that one co-worker, distant college friend or old fling who used to live on Greenville? Text them. Find the least awkward connection you have to someone who lives on Greenville, and ruthlessly invite yourself to their pre-parade party.
Decide on your St. Patrick's Day look. Are you a play-it-cool type who wears mostly black with a touch of olive? Or are you a St. Pat's Day diehard, with a bright green wig and obnoxious punny-but-not-funny slogan T-shirt? Anything you wear can and will be subject to blood, sweat, beer and tears. Good luck.
This wig screams, "I'm Irish."
Search your email for that random Lyft code you thought you had. Succumb to Uber. Accept the surge rate.
Arrive at the pregame. Who are these people? It’s fine. It's time to decide between Michelob or mimosas. Or shots if you’re a goddamn monster.
Overhear someone at the party say, “Beyoncé is underrated because she hasn’t had a hit in 10 years.”
Murder someone. Just kidding. A blank stare followed by piercing, violent silence will do.
The parade is starting. Text your friends who you promised to meet up with at a predetermined time and location that you're on your way. You’re not on your way, but you are chugging your drink, so same thing.
Say goodbye to everyone except what’s-her-face.
Google Maps to where you're supposed to walk. Grow extremely confused about your general surroundings and a destination five minutes away.
Get really lost but accept beer from strangers to feel less insecure about being alone for four whole minutes.
Finally find your friends. With no thanks to the garbage app Find My Friends.
Introduce yourself to your friend’s basic-ass Bumble date. Call him or her “Bumble” the rest of the day.
You shall call him Bumble.
Green beer is good.
Is that Mark Cuban across the street? Yell, “MARK CUBAN!” It’s not Mark Cuban. The man waves back anyway.
Looks just like Mark Cuban.
Ask a stranger to take a photo of you and your friends. It’s awful.
Ask Bumble to take a photo of you and your friends. It’s awful
Post it to your Instagram story anyway.
Where did this Jell-O shot come from? Yummy!
Is that the hairdresser from Queer Eye
? Yell, “GUY FROM QUEER EYE
! YOU’RE MY FAVORITE ONE!”
It’s not him and you’ve offended everyone.
Grow extremely and unnecessarily competitive about the miscellaneous items being thrown at you from the floats.
Low-key start a cold war with the group of pretty girls next to you and your friends over the candy and beads being thrown from the floats.
Is that a cute dog wearing a green shirt? That’s hilarious. Pet the dog.
Is that a cute baby wearing a green shirt? Do NOT pet the baby. STAY AWAY FROM THE CUTE BABY.
Decide to #TurnUp, as they say.
Yell at the women in the parade floats to “FLASH US.”
Will she flash you?
Be appalled when some do.
Drake song in the background. Immediately tweet, “I only love my bed and my mama, I’m sorry.”
Jell-O shots are delicious.
Oh God, is that your company’s CFO? What is he doing on this side of 635? Hide.
The parade is over, but today’s regrets have just gotten started.
Arrive at Ozona’s, the perfect post-parade pick-me-up spot, with its delicious margs, queso and 500 fellow Dallasites crammed in the seemingly never-ending interior.
Make Bumble buy you and your friends margs.
Trying too hard, Bumble brings back shots with the margs.
Lose your roommate.
Lose your phone.
When a redhead stranger offers you a Jell-O shot from their pants pocket in the hallway of Ozona’s, you accept it, no questions asked. It is THEIR day. “Ireland died for this,” you tell yourself. Jell-O shots are delicious.
A stranger hands you a handful of tickets to the Lower Greenville block party. You question how you’ll ever make it to Lower Greenville, which seems like 20 miles away. It might as well be Bishop Arts. It might as well be Corsicana. But you accept.
Arrive at the block party and hate it exactly as much as you suspected you would.
11:40 a.m. Green beer is good.
West Elm is having a sale! Everyone knows the best time to shop in Dallas is blacked out after a citywide celebration. Faux marble is calling your name. “Ireland died for this,” you remind yourself.
What is “Budget”?
Urban Taco is next to West Elm, it’s been a solid three hours since your last Mexican food dish, and it’s time to replenish.
That college credit just kicked in. Speak Spanish to the waiter.
Go to People’s Last Stand. It’s empty because everyone is at Lower Greenville, and oh yeah, it’s St. Patrick’s Day. Order a green beer.
Feel like death. Hate yourself. Question how you’re still alive.
Only one of your friends has any remaining phone battery. Use that last precious 5 percent to Uber to that one new bar in Deep Ellum you keep hearing about but have never been to.
“Uptown people have infiltrated Deep Ellum. This feels like Kung Fu.”
Walk to the Green Room. You know you’re going to end up there anyway. Order green beer.
Everyone’s phone is either lost or dead, like your souls.
Do yellow cabs still exist? Do you still exist? How do people in 2018 find a sober ride home without their phones? Attempt to figure it out like the phoneless peasant you are.
Blame everything on Bumble.
Against all the odds in the world, arrive at home. Peel the green beads off your neck, wash your face, and go to bed. Try to forget the fact that you’ve been saying this for years, and tell yourself that you’ll be better next year.
See you then.