Regrets, regrets

I am supposed to be in Ireland right now. I'm not. I missed my flight, and it was 100 pounds to get on the next one. That's more than I paid for my outgoing and returning flights combined. I do not have 100 pounds to get on a plane. (Well, I have it, but I need it to be able to, you know, eat and stuff.) I feel like huge jerky bitch, too, because the friend I was going to visit, the one I haven't seen in ten years, was going to pick me up at the airport, which is relatively far out of her way; so of course, I had to go and run out of credit on my phone, so I couldn't call to tell her not to come get me. So she went to the airport. And waited. And I was not there. (I briefed her on the sitch via Facebook, but she didn't get it in time.) Thus, not only am I sad and not in Ireland, I am sad and not in Ireland AND a jerk.

This calls for vodka, stat.