We all have that one friend. The one who you love dearly. You genuinely enjoy spending time with this friend but as time goes by, the two of you grow apart, more than likely not by choice. You live in different cities now and see each other sparingly, but every once in a while, you get to see each other–and it’s just like the old times.
5 p.m.: Text: “Hey thinkin about coming down to visit this weekend. You got plans?”
It has started. Your friend has a rezzie for one on your couch and you’re about to embark on the kind of 48 hour bender you haven’t seen since junior year. Thank God you got paid this week.
5:15 p.m.: Your response: “Absolutely not. Mi casa es su casa. Can’t wait.”
You send the text and immediately start having mixed feelings of excitement, regret, and pure terror. The last time your friend visited, you woke up next to your bed clutching a Papa John’s box and overdrafted your bank account by $200.
All day: You’re in preparation mode, mentally and physically. Hydration is key, as is eating healthy. You don’t get any work done and the anxiety begins to mount.
9 a.m.: You barely got any sleep because you were so excited. You even cleaned your apartment. Well, you threw all of your dirty clothes in your closet and did a once-over with the Swiffer, but hey, sometimes the effort is all that matters.
11:30am: Early lunch. You’re already on your third coffee and your anxiety levels are through the roof. You’re cursing yourself for not getting enough sleep last night, as you assume you’ll only get approximately 4.5 hours of sleep this weekend.
1 p.m.: Text: “Hey just left. What’s your address again?”
Your friend has visited four times and still doesn’t know where you live. Also, he will be in town before you even get off work. Time to hustle and get out of the office by 4 p.m.
4 p.m.: You hurry through your Friday afternoon agenda, even with a status meeting taking up most of the afternoon. It’s amazing what you can do when properly motivated. You slam your laptop shut and hit the road.
5 p.m.: You spent 45 minutes in traffic so your friend decides to meet up with you for happy hour.
5:30 p.m.: You finally meet up with him at the closest bar to your apartment, which happens to be an Applebee’s. Your friend is already on margarita numero tres so you feel you need to play catch-up. The two of you share a warm embrace and the topic of conversation turns to how hot your waitress is for an Applebee’s waitress.
6:20 p.m.: The two of you are already sufficiently drunk and have run up a $100 tab in less than an hour.
7:00 p.m.: Thankfully your apartment is within walking distance, so the two of you hit the trail back home to shower and get ready for a night on the town.
7:05 p.m.: Detour to the neighborhood liquor store. You drop $75 bucks on weekend provisions–a case of Miller throwback cans and two fifths of scotch should do it.
7:30 p.m.: You realize you’re still drunk and you worry you might not last long. You’re sluggish from dinner. Your friend suggests you stop being such a pussy and drink your scotch.
8:30 p.m.: You get out of the shower and you’re ready to hit the town. Your degenerate friend is already slurring and the two of you have gone through a half-pack of Parliaments.
9:15 p.m.: You wait on a cab for 30 minutes. Your degenerate friend claims he can drive to the bars, arguing, “No one’s ever gotten a DUI before midnight.”
9:25 p.m.: The cab mercifully shows up.
9:45 p.m.: You hit the first bar, where you meet up with some of your new friends and introduce everyone to one another. Your friend decides this is a great time to tell the story about the time the two of you smuggled prescription drugs over the border. He’s the only one who laughs.
10:30 p.m.: Some of your new friends have already bailed and you’re onto the second bar. It’s a western-themed bar where your degenerate friend lines up seven shots of Fireball upon arrival.
11:15 p.m.: Your degenerate friend is two-stepping on the dance floor with a cougar–but it’s more like him gracelessly throwing her around the dance floor than it is dancing.
11:30 p.m.: You are kicked out of the western-themed bar.
11:45 p.m.: You go to a sweaty dance club. Your degenerate friend is in paradise.
12:15 a.m.: The dance club is dirty, muggy and smells like sex. You’re borderline blackout. A shot of Rumple Minze sends you over the edge.
12:30-1:45 a.m.: Blackout.
2:30 a.m.: You come to after burning your tongue on the Totino’s pizza that you’ve folded taco-style. Your degenerate friend is passed out with a beer in hand.
3 a.m.: Pass out.
9 a.m.: You wake up. You know before opening your eyes that you’ve hit the grand slam of hangovers. You have a headache, what feels like the early stages of cirrhosis of the liver, heartburn, and crippling anxiety. A fistful of Advil to the face and a desperate gulp from the water on your nightstand should help–but guess who’s already awake?
9:15 a.m.: Your degenerate friend is yelling at you to get out of bed. He wants to go to brunch. You pretend to still be asleep.
10:30 a.m.: You finally roll out of bed and hit up a diner for breakfast. Your stomach does flip flops after watching your degenerate friend polish off two beers.
11 a.m.: After brunch, you head back to your apartment. You finally get to catch your breath while your friend’s in the shower. You decide to put on his favorite TV show, hoping he’ll get distracted and you won’t have to start day drinking just yet.
11:15 a.m.-2 p.m.: It works. You take a two hour nap while he watches four episodes of “Arrested Development”.
2:30 p.m.: You even get to extend the nap by taking a toilet nap before getting in the shower. Every minute counts.
2:45 p.m.: You are jolted awake by your degenerate friend banging on the bathroom door, telling you to “hurry the fuck up.”
3:30-11:45 p.m.: Extrapolate Friday night for the next eight hours. Lose your sunglasses.
12:15-2 a.m.: You have no idea where you are and don’t even remember your own name.
10 a.m.: Wake up on your floor, clutching a Papa John’s box. Your friend has already left and you have a text from him: “Awesome time. Let’s do it again soon.” After choosing your words carefully, you reply: “For sure. Gimme a couple months.”