Ugh, I'm sick. But not with my normal explosive tonsillitis/Tiny Tim/Satine a la Moulin Rouge/my own fault for not getting my tonsils out sickness. Although this is still my fault. As per usual...
Saturday night I went out a-boozin', as the young kids do. I made the very conscious decision to get drunk. I had the time, I had the money and I couldn't remember the last time I was good and drunk. "Oh man, I'm going to get drunk tonight and I am excited!" I exclaimed to Alex as I stood in line at Subway, waiting to get a delicious sandwhich. "Ooo! Let's do that!" Alex replied. HURRAY! We had a plan.
So I went home, ate my meager six-inch tuna on wheat and thought, "Welp, that's all the food I'll need for the rest of the afternoon/evening/night/my entire life. Guess I'll go drink the equivalent of the Indian Ocean in beer now." And drink the Indian Ocean in beer I did.
As Alex and I were leaving the last bar on Andrew's Birthday Bar Crawl 2009, we stopped at Ben's Chili Bowl to get food. That's where things get a little hazy. I remember 1.) not wearing any shoes (which in retrospect makes me want to curl up and die); 2.) not much else. I faintly recall it being hard to get a cab and thinking "man, these chili cheese fries are going to be delicious, but they are hot." And that's all she wrote.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of my cell phone ringing. It was Co-Blogger Chris, who was in town for the weekend and had made plans to get brunch with me that morning. I let it go to voicemail as I clawed the walls in an effort to make them stop spinning. (When I get hungover, I get hung-the-fuck-over. I'm never like, "Ooo! I've got a bit of a headache! Tee-hee!" It's always slightly traumatic. I'm specifically thinking of a morning after 4th of July a few years ago spent lying on my parent's kitchen floor, rolling around on the cold tiles, crying my face off. My parents sat disinterested at the kitchen table reading the newspaper, kicking me gently every now and then to make sure I was still alive.)
After the room stopped spinning a little bit, I sat up and surveyed my situation:
1.) I was completely naked. This is bizarre because unlike Boss #1, I despise sleeping naked.
2.) My clothes from the night before were nowhere in sight.
3.) Curled up on the pillow next to me was two (count 'em, two) orders of half-eaten cheese fries.
4.) Being a tosser and turner, there was cheese virtually everywhere. All over my sheets, pillows face, chest, arms...dignity.
5.) I tossed back the covers and discovered a rogue pair of tweezers and a bottle of club soda in bed with me.
Given these clues, I've deduced that after leaving Ben's Chili Bowl, I came home, made violent yet passionate love to two orders of cheese fries, tweezed my eyebrows, sipped some club soda and passed out.
A few minutes later, Co-Blogger Chris was a-knockin' on my door. I answered looking like the hot-morning-after-cheese-show that I was. He seemed worried. I hopped back in bed, fully expecting him to follow. Instead he opted to sit in a chair. Three feet away from me. "...You're not getting into bed with me because of the cheese, aren't you?" [Chris looks around awkwardly,] "....Yeah..." Sigh. "And please go wash your face. I can't take you seriously with all that cheese everywhere." Double sigh.
So it's Monday now. I think I'm still full from my midnight cheese raping. I feel like I'm going to vom at any given second. Still. This is so painful.
I remember a time when I would wake up on Sunday mornings and be like, "OH MAN, who's this dude in my bed??" And now it's "OH MAN, who are these cheese fries in my bed."