What is wrong with my brain?

Good evening, beasts of the morning, er...
So, tomorrow will mark the one year anniversary of me turning 21 and, assuming that I live through a night of heavy drinking and failed attempts at consenual copulation, it will mean that I have been a raging pulic alcoholic for one year and not died. This is an accomplishment which will be celebrated with, you guessed it, more drinking. See: next weekend.
I use, way, too many, commas and, I admit that. You, ha,ve been, warned,. I feel that I must explain my overuse of commas. I write this as I would speak this. Which is to say, pausing for dramatic effect at each and every opportunity, probably for no reason other than to be as irritating as possible at any given moment. Either that or I have no idea how to turn one overly long run-on sentence into two sentences of acceptable length. Fuck you, I don't care.
Saturday night was full or dissapointment, thriumphantness (is that a word?) and exhiliration. In no particluar order. I went out with Ian, friend and co-worker from two jobs and fellow car enthuisiast. My goal for Saturday night was to associate with the womens. This was not unsuccessful, but not successful in the least. We headed to the a local bar which has a single female population equivalent to that of my basement, which is to say, less than a few (for clarification, I don't even have a basement). We shot pool and shot the shit until co-workers arrived. After $60 worth of beer, we decided it was time to leave and were on our way out when I was stopped a girl I've known for a while. Long story short, by telling her I don't care and that I will never, ever ever ever call her, I greatly (and I mean greatly) improved my chances of getting laid in the future. Thus affirming the idea that women want assholes. Long story short: Ian and I took some turns in his insanely fast and highly-tuned supercar, spun some doughnuts and I passed out on my dads floor shortly after the adrenaline wore off.
For some reason I am reminded of the time Brandon (you fucker) decided to tell me that there was a huge quantity of black smoke coming out of the back of my car after asking me 4 or 5 times if I was barbecuing, which I was not. I was driving and couldn't figure out for the love of god why I was being asked such an assinine question. I sold that car for $400 more than I paid for it and hadn't changed the oil in over 15,000 miles. No wonder shit was on fire.
The moral of the story is: There is no moral.