I will eat pita chips.

I will drink wine.

I will take lengthy bathroom breaks during acceptance speeches made by middle-aged bearded guys who do boring things like sound editing.

I will eat more pita chips.

I will drink more wine.

I will say something wildly inappropriate about the “special achievement award” I’d like to personally present to George Clooney.

I will get the silent treatment from my husband.

I will switch to vodka.

I will sloppily cry during the Death montage, then go 4 for 4 in the foreign film category.

I will find some Benadryl.

I will stain the couch by trying to say “Jean Hersholt Humanitarian Award” with a mouthful of hummus.

I will loudly argue that Action Jackson is too up for Best Picture.

I will make a thinly veiled death threat against Randy Newman.

I will fade in and out.

I will French kiss my TV when I see Stanley Tucci in the audience.

I will wake up in the guest room.