Between this morning and last night, famoustwits has decided I am “famous” enough to be followed on Twitter. Odd? Yes. Misled? Probably.

Last night Moto and friends barhopped in the Mission. First we were off to Elbo Room, where the skinny Dwight-esque bouncer said, “I really like your signature,” in regards to my driver’s license. My 16-year old signature, captured on my license, turns Ms into hearts and is overall really loopy. It annoys even me, but all I could say was “Thank you!” Inside, a man with Morrissey-altitude hair laughed heartily for Moto and me, and then proceeded to butcher the first verse to “Runaway” by Del Shannon – Then tried to tell us The Four Tops sang it.

They charged me $10 instead of $5 to attend the “winter formal” because I didn’t get no memo and wore pants instead of a dress. Oh well, at least at Bruno’s Lobot got us in for free. I saw a chick wearing my knockout dress and instantly wanted to punch her in the face. I’m glad I never shelled out the money for it, though. In the end, I need to be able to pay rent. (Incidentally, I saw a dress in the window of Mission Statement that I really really want. Sigh.)

So at Bruno’s Moto and I are waiting in line for the single-patron unisex restroom. The line seems to be at a halt for longer than normal for legal-aged adults who can hold their liquor. Some disaster of a girl exits the restroom and wobbles to her friends’ assistance. A gentleman goes into the restroom. After a normal duration of time, he re-emerges, letting us all know, “There’s puke in the sink.”

In a sense, avoiding a public restroom because there is vomit in the toilet bowl or in the sink is like crying over spilt milk. If you’ve been waiting a long time, have tons of Maker’s Mark in your stomach, and do not plan on changing venues just to find a place to “dispose,” then you can probably deal with disgusting things that are contained to one spot, one sort of makeshift holding vessel. A couple of people go ahead into the restroom, bracing themselves. Moto heads in before me and warns me to hold my nose when it’s my turn.

And here’s where I don’t get my curious nature of things. I have been told there is puke in the sink. Inherently, I know there is puke in the sink. So why, when I actually make it into the dimly lit room, do I look into the sink? Did I think it’d be some cool, glow-in-the-dark, green color? Was it going to hold precious gems hidden throughout its jelly-like mass?

I am actually thankful for the cold I’ve been harboring, because I could not smell a damn thing in that restroom. My cold did not stop my stupid, self-induced set-up for nominal disaster, though.

Surprise! Those four people ahead of you did not lie, and there really is puke in the sink.

Picking at scabs. Stalking exes’ MySpaces. Watching reality TV. Looking at puke that you know will be there. We are curious creatures. We will always pick, stalk, ogle, and gaze at projected upchuck at the ready. Why do we do these things to ourselves?