3 Feb

Labor Day Weekend more or less means a 94-hour block of drunkenness for anyone who’s anyone around these parts, so naturally I’m joining the majority. The past 72 hours have been full of vodka and cheap beer. A little substance abuse and nudity never hurt anyone. Except Anna Nicole Smith. And Kurt Cobain. And Marilyn Monroe.

…And presumably Elvis Presley. Shit happens.

Last night began around 5:00 p.m. with Kehly prematurely joining in a beer pong tourney while waiting for our hoard of laundry to be completed. I run home and get ready and begin cracking open Bud Ices like it’s going out of style. We return to the guys’ place shortly thereafter and start screaming Michael Buble and Michael Jackson songs while simultaneously showering each other in beer spills and not apologizing.

At about 9 o’clock, I realize that I am on my second-to-last beer. This upsets me, but I know it’s going to a good cause. With my beer between my knees, I explain to a girl near me as if she is interested that I need to cherish every last drop of the beer I currently had because I only had one more left. At that exact moment, my beer crashes to the floor and foams all over. I scramble to pick it up while swearing loudly and allowing my ass crack to make an appearance. I get my beer picked back up, and find a towel. I start dabbing up my puddle when I yet again knock my beer to the floor, wasting the fourth of it that was left. I am angered, but quickly move on to my last full beer.

I finish my Bud Ice as quickly as humanly possible, while Cole convinces me I could certainly handle a few follow-up shots. Being the polite individual that I am, I kindly accept and slam a few down to cheers such as “to bitches and hoes” and “Fuck you, Steve.”

It’s about quarter to ten by now, and I’m feeling pretty good. I’m noticing that my legs aren’t responding as well as I would like them to, but it’s only a minor inconvenience. Kehly offers me her last Sprite because she doesn’t need it, so I figure “waste not, want not,” and do the responsible thing: take four or five more shots of Phillips.

Eventually we all get fed up with pretending to know all the words to the songs we were singing and decide we’re drunk enough to start heading downtown. Kehly, Amy, Jill, Nick, Nick P., and myself begin marching to the bars. I announce that I only have $8 to my name at that point, and hope that it will be enough. Otherwise my plan was to panhandle, which I am undeniably good at, except that it’s illegal and grounds for incarceration. Nick P. generously hands me two dollars to try to make peace with me; he has simply not understood my crude sarcasm after all these weeks, and still thinks he has to prove himself worthy of my kindness. I accept his money and leave him behind.

Nick Lang and I then proceed to locate the violinist from last year, and again I attempt to convince him to give me my high five that I had been trying to get from him since March of last year. Again he refuses, but instead of being a cranky stickler like last semester, he “pounds it,” as they say. I accept this compromise, and in addition, get it on video tape. I am feeling very pleased with myself at this point, and am satisfied to make progress with the nomadic musician.

We go to Vito’s to visit Marcus, who went into work absolutely hammered. There are literally zero people in Vito’s. The place was completely empty. We play around with the idea of going in and just having the bar entirely to ourselves, but then realize we can do that in our own living room, and choose to go to Brother’s instead.

By now I’m seeing everything in flash frames. I have gaps between “here and there,” but I know we get into Brother’s after waiting in a horrendous line, and that it is very crowded. I find myself standing unsteadily in a group with Chad, Jill, Amy, Kehly, Nick and Nick, taking horrible pictures and singing Carrie Underwood at an inappropriate decibel. At some point, the bar personnel take some photos of us and inform us we will be displayed on their website for being so entertaining. Swelling with pride from our new found celebrity status, Kehly and I decide we want Pita Pit, and we want it immediately.

We begin to leave the bar, but see a decently good looking boy and savagely pull him outside with us. We learn that his name is Travis and he is a freshman. We take numerous pictures with him and acuqire his phone number, and then hug him too many times and keep walking toward our feast. On the way, we find some hooligans hanging out on the corner, and decide that they look like interesting prospects and begin to chat. For whatever reason, Kehly and I are both feeling extra fiesty, and begin verbally attacking everyone we speak to. Everyone loves our fresh sarcasm, and tells us how much they like us. We are pleased. We take more pictures and collect more phone numbers, and then I take a picture with the homeless man that gave me AIDS last year.

Kehly and I again continue to head toward Pita Pit. While in line to get our tasty treat, we meet another man named Austin. Austin is very much interested in our bitchy demeanor, and plays along wonderfully, while also crossing some lines in the touching department. We let it happen, and get our food and sit down. He inevitably joins us at our table, and we engage in conversation. I don’t remember anything we talked about, but he liked us very much and we decided he was interesting enough to allow to sit with us and continue to chat.

Some point in the conversation leads him to get up and storm to the bathroom while taking his shirt off. A man two tables away jumps up, stares at us, and yells, “THAT, JUST, HAPPENED!” while spitting fragments of his pita all over the place. Kehly and I laugh heartily, and he continues to yell, “I’M A PITA-EATING MOTHER FUCKER!” Again we laugh, and decide that this man too is our friend. On his way out, he stops by our table with a wild look in his eye and jubilantly says, “TIME to get a PUBLIC intox!”

I again state that I like this man, and we sadly watch him leave. Austin returns and we continue to harass and verbally abuse each other. After our food is finished, we venture outside where we find our new friend’s sister who is picking him up. In a car. We see an opportunity, and we score a ride back to the boys’ place so we didn’t have to walk. I am over-joyed, because my feet are now bleeding from my shoes.

We depart from our new friends, and begin the sleep over at Cole’s. A lot of nudity ensues, and we see more of Cole than his doctor did on the day of his birth. We go unconscious.

The next morning I awake in a tepid pool of my own sweat because Nick’s room is the temperature of a steaming rain forest. I am feeling very dehydrated, and I cannot breathe through my nose. Something feels “not right.” I slowly make my way to the bathroom and discover that my entire face is swollen. Very, very swollen. My eye balls look like tiny pin holes compared to my puffy eyelids and fat neck. I am very concerned. Was it something I had eaten? I was experiencing a very aggressive allergic reaction, and was not feeling good about it. I fly into Cole’s room in a panic and show them my huge face. They don’t really care. I stop caring and eat BBQ chips in my underwear.

Eventually we go home and I go unconscious in my living room. That’s it.

This is too long.

(That’s what she said).


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s

%d bloggers like this: