Sometimes I’m not sober.
I know that’s a shock to all of you, and we’ll have a moment of silence at the end of this post to let you gather yourself so you can move forward with your day.
I have always prided myself on my ability to hold liquor. Sure, I make some questionable statements, play too many games of “slap for slap” and become irrationally intent on proving how tough I am, but overall, I keep my puking/crying/drunk-drama to a minimum.
I also have a memory like an elephant, and unfortunately for me, can usually recall the shit that pours out of my mouth when the hooch has me in its sweaty grip.
For years, I would be the one responsible for reminding people what they did the night before. Chances are if you woke up half under my bed, wearing only a crossing guard vest, spooning a pylon with “RIGHT SAID FRED” written across your chest in lipstick, I’d be able to give you the play by play of your shameful escapades.
But the years have not been so kind to this ol’ memory of mine. We can all speculate as to why my brain lags sometimes, but you’re welcome to keep your opinions to yourself, asshole. The point is, my drunkventures have become a little bit patchier than they used to be. This means 3 things: 1) Sunday morning usually resembles some sort of still-drunk scavenger hunt for my own belongings, 2) I spend the day logged into Facebook, waiting for the impending untagfest, and 3) I will receive several calls throughout the day from fellow bed-ridden partybeasts looking for some clarity on their poor life choices.
And while I may no longer be the best go-to resource for piecing together your disaster of a life, I vow to be supportive, use some judgment when I upload my pictures and next time I pass you that bottle of tequila, I’ll promise to take you for street “meat”* afterwards. Because that shit IS what dreams are made of.
*I use the term ‘meat’ loosely. I’m a vegetarian, and I don’t give a shit if you have a problem with that. You eat meat; you don’t eat meat, whatever. I don’t care. Veggie street meat is the shiz. End of story.
***Some of you may be looking for a Thanksgiving recap, and this, my friends, is not where you’ll find it… Not today, anyway. I ate/drank too much and my brain has yet to regain full functionality.
I’m going to go drink some wine and find a park somewhere.
P.S. After some brief and informative research on slag terms for booze, I've located a new favourite, as per this site:
The Porch Climber: A Canadian slang, Porch Climber refers to someone who is extremely drunk or in the state of intoxication.
I'm sorry, but do we have a problem with people climbing porches in Canada? Is this some sort of epidemic I'm unaware of? If so, how can I get on that train? I do enjoy a good porch.