Monday, November 22, 2004
my sick and twisted weekend
Greetings.
I have a 2500-word paper due tomorrow, and since I'm almost done, I feel justified in procrastinating a bit longer (I have already gone on a field trip to Oakridge and out for sushi with the Boy).
I had something of a strange weekend. Sick and twisted are the best words I can think of to describe it.
Friday I went to the gym and busted my foot doing sprints, which was very clever of me. I still haven't figured out what I'm going to do about that. Met the Boy and some of his friends for sushi (I'm sensing a trend here), then headed to a very dull stundet exchange "mixer" (read: an event with 20-25 people, no music, no alcohol, and no events save a photo contest), which, needless to say, got old very fast. I had arranged to meet G., P. from Prague, and some others to go drinking. They arrived and crashed the mixer around 8:30...they were coming from Buck a Beaker (some science event whereby you get beakers full of beer for a dollar each), not surprisingly drunk off their respective asses. So drunk that G. had stopped speaking English and had moved on to a pidgin dialect combining Danish, French, and German. I understood very little, as I was stone-cold sober. I was even a bit perplexed when they all got down on their knees outside International House (minus the Pancakes....to the Boy's disappointment), location of said mixer, and prayed to JESUS and someone P. called Christ-Krishna that their friends still inside would get laid that evening.
We eventually made it to G.'s house, where everyone started on a not-entirely-noble crusade to get me to catch up to their level of inebriation by feeding me rum, tequila and beer straight from the bottles, at times physically placing bottle to mouth and tipping it upwards in the hope that I would have no choice but to drink. I guess I should have figured this would end badly. It felt really weird having all these guys around trying to make me drunk, especially since for the most part I considered them friends. Their behaviour was at times intimidating and made me feel a bit out-of-sorts, in ways I probabaly shouldn't go into. Suffice it to say I felt very vulnerable under the circumstances. A few hours later, G. & P. had disappeared somewhere (allegedly while taking P. home on the bus), and C., -- G.'s childhood friend, nice chap but a positively bizarre drunk -- was passed out on the floor, and I was in the world-spinning-around stage, which was closely followed by the violently ill phase.
The worst part about this was that I was all alone now. I was mystified as to how this had all happened, was pretty sure I didn't want to stick around, especially if G. wasn't coming home. I eventually wandered into his roommate's abode, a fellow with whom I happen to have something of a regrettable history, and scrawled something cryptic on a piece of paper which I'm now hoping he didn't read. The strangeness and general unpleasantness of being in his room brought on more spinning, and then more violently ill moments. Finally, I called the Boy, not wanting to bug him but really needing help. He said he would come get me, but I realised it would be just as easy for me to cab it out to him, and I met him by his apartment, where I spent the night. He fed me and kept me awake until the world stopped spinning, which I think spared me the worst parts of the hangover, though it was still not terribly pleasant. I woke up the next morning, feeling, as Anthony Bourdain would put it: "pleasantly surprised to still be alive." That was the most intoxicated I have ever been in my young life, much worse than the bar-hopping and bad wine incident in Turkey, the beach drinking in Grade 12, and every other stupid thing I have ever done with drugs and alcohol. It was not sexy, it was not fun, and it did not feel good. It was, however, terribly alienating, uncomfortable, unpleasant, and a generally not-to-be-repeated experience.
Called G. the next morning, who had no idea I had had a miserable time the night before and didn't seem terribly concerned. I know I can't expect drunken fools to take care of me, but maybe I just expect them to stick around until I come to.
Saturday evening, still hungover, I went to see Spike and Mike's Twisted Festival of Animation with the Boy and the same pals from sushi the night before. It was in parts incredibly funny, and in other parts horrendously lame. Everyone should hunt down the French film "La Revolution des Crabes." It is comedy gold and we've been repeating lines from it ever since.
The prof I wrote about in here a while ago (ie. Professor Dolt) has continued to be an asshole. I went to see him in his office, asked him to re-evaluate my paper, and when he sent me a bullshit email about it, I went on a rampage, quoting scholars left and right and generally informing him that he was wrong (though I refrained from calling him a big jerk). I guess he was impressed with my feistyness (a word?) since he agreed to let me hand in DRAFTS of my next two papers on the due dates, which he will then mark and hand back so I can correct them before handing in the final copies. He also agreed to talk to me about my papers whenever I wanted this week. This is a major score and proves that it pays to be very annoying and endlessly persistent.
So now I have the rest of my essay to write (yay) and a test to study for (double yay), not to mention a cat to feed and a litter box to clean (oddly enough, this is the chore I look forward to the least).
Mew Cat says MEW!!
And tequila is still my friend (Because I blame the dude who pulls the trigger and not the gun).
Happy trails.
-N
