Man. It always surprises me. The complete absence of parental boundaries always surprises me. And not in a good way. Not even in a good way, dammit. It’s not like my life is all of a sudden rolling down grassy knolls and playing with yellow butterflies and not worrying about strangers’ candy and cholera and grass stains. My parents didn’t raise me the right way, they raised me the scared way. Which was very clever of them. Now I do what they want without excessive needling on their part. But they still have to nag—case in point: my mother’s principal purpose in life.
So last night we were supposed to hit open SUB night, because we are UBC students and that’s what we do. And we did. For all of fifteen minutes anyway (the $10 entrance fee makes those minutes pretty expensive to my thinking, but I’m poor so what would I know?). Derek hooked up with some cheerfully plastered friends, and we all crowded into his car for purposes of further intoxication. I was so drunk, it makes me want to cry just thinking about it. I don’t remember much, which is a godsend considering what little I do remember is the stuff of beer-soaked boobies. I remember we were still running amok at 3:00 a.m.—I know this because I remember accosting a middle-aged man in the street by shoving my watch in his face, drunkenly bemoaning the fact that I couldn’t tell time anymore. He told me it was a quarter past 3. He seemed very taciturn. I remember telling a drag-queen-looking chick that she looked like she’d smeared “uling” all over her eyelids. I remember getting into a somewhat ugly fight with Derek over Franz Ferdinand and money. I remember someone’s voice in my ear, and someone’s hand on my ass. I remember Quinn laughing at me. I don’t know why he was laughing at me, but I do know that it made me feel incredibly shitty. I remember sticking my head out of the window of Derek’s car and falling in love with Vancouver. I remember waking up in Derek’s apartment without my pants on. But, no, it wasn’t a sexcapade, dammit. It was just me getting frustrated with buttons and zippers after narrowly evading a near toilet catastrophe. I remember the sleeping bag Derek dumped me on smelled like old socks. Not a big fan of morning-afters, this one. I’m so weak. I nearly blubbered in the cab ride home (because public transit is not my friend when I have a hangover crawling up my ass) because I wasn’t sure if I had enough money and if I still had my keys.
So right now, it’s a little past 7 p.m., and I only feel slightly human. I realize that these are my roaring 20’s and I’m supposed to be frothing at the mouth for similar inebriated experiences. But, it’s just not my cup of tea. Please, please, just give me sushi and hot tea and friends. And gelato and pad thai noodles. And smoothies. But not all at the same time. Because that would be gross. :P
I haven’t done much today. I learned how to cook adobo (and now I have adobo to last me for a week and then some). And I tried making new playlists for Don Palomino (because the exigencies of reinstallation needed Raoul out of the way), but that was a bust because finding songs for “Songs to Sing My Loneliness Away” was just too heartbreaking for my state of mind. Later, I plan on doing some laundry and finishing my sewing.
No, seriously. I have sewing.
So last night we were supposed to hit open SUB night, because we are UBC students and that’s what we do. And we did. For all of fifteen minutes anyway (the $10 entrance fee makes those minutes pretty expensive to my thinking, but I’m poor so what would I know?). Derek hooked up with some cheerfully plastered friends, and we all crowded into his car for purposes of further intoxication. I was so drunk, it makes me want to cry just thinking about it. I don’t remember much, which is a godsend considering what little I do remember is the stuff of beer-soaked boobies. I remember we were still running amok at 3:00 a.m.—I know this because I remember accosting a middle-aged man in the street by shoving my watch in his face, drunkenly bemoaning the fact that I couldn’t tell time anymore. He told me it was a quarter past 3. He seemed very taciturn. I remember telling a drag-queen-looking chick that she looked like she’d smeared “uling” all over her eyelids. I remember getting into a somewhat ugly fight with Derek over Franz Ferdinand and money. I remember someone’s voice in my ear, and someone’s hand on my ass. I remember Quinn laughing at me. I don’t know why he was laughing at me, but I do know that it made me feel incredibly shitty. I remember sticking my head out of the window of Derek’s car and falling in love with Vancouver. I remember waking up in Derek’s apartment without my pants on. But, no, it wasn’t a sexcapade, dammit. It was just me getting frustrated with buttons and zippers after narrowly evading a near toilet catastrophe. I remember the sleeping bag Derek dumped me on smelled like old socks. Not a big fan of morning-afters, this one. I’m so weak. I nearly blubbered in the cab ride home (because public transit is not my friend when I have a hangover crawling up my ass) because I wasn’t sure if I had enough money and if I still had my keys.
So right now, it’s a little past 7 p.m., and I only feel slightly human. I realize that these are my roaring 20’s and I’m supposed to be frothing at the mouth for similar inebriated experiences. But, it’s just not my cup of tea. Please, please, just give me sushi and hot tea and friends. And gelato and pad thai noodles. And smoothies. But not all at the same time. Because that would be gross. :P
I haven’t done much today. I learned how to cook adobo (and now I have adobo to last me for a week and then some). And I tried making new playlists for Don Palomino (because the exigencies of reinstallation needed Raoul out of the way), but that was a bust because finding songs for “Songs to Sing My Loneliness Away” was just too heartbreaking for my state of mind. Later, I plan on doing some laundry and finishing my sewing.
No, seriously. I have sewing.
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