Despite a promise to myself to relax this weekend and not put myself on a timetable, I made a drunken proposal at the Chapel about a potluck. Then the old "I make the best fried chicken ever" claim I've been making for years got called. Rats.
So Saturday, we're gonna have a potluck and I'm making fried chicken. Fuck.
A few burner fires and several hours later, it's finally done. Everyone is so hungry, they gobble it down and swear it is the best ever.
Whatever, it's done. Then we move onto games and tequila. Sue has the idea that the loser drinks. Somehow, the buzzer always ends up in her hands. For someone who doesn't like tequila....
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