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Like most of you, I spent much of yesterday curled up in bed streaming the majority of a television show in one sitting. Looking like this, if you will:
Why yes, that was a shameful plug to follow the brand new Touching Base Instagram account — but it’s Monday and I felt like closing an early deal by stacking some follows. Not going to apologize.
Alright, let’s get into this week’s crop of stories which can be found unedited in quotes below.
Subject: The Eagles are going to the Super Bowl
I’m still drunk
While I appreciate your brevity, I don’t get happy for fan bases enjoying a playoff run — I just get jealous. But still being drunk at 7:37 a.m. when this email was sent still isn’t ideal.
I am writing from my bed where I’ve been posted up for the past 24hrs. A few of my friends and I decided it’d be fun to go to a rodeo on Saturday night it started at 7:30pm.
Part 1: The Pregame’s Pregame
Around noon a friend asked if I wanted to come hangout and grab some food before the rodeo pregame. I said yes went over to his place and we began drinking and proceeded to get food. Walking back from food to my friends place we found a bar that we had heard many people talk about but had never experienced. We walked in and got a drink and it became very evident that this was 1 too many for me and I ran out and starting puking everywhere.
Part 2:The Rodeo’s pregame
From my friends place we took an Über and upon arrival I started slamming whiskey cokes for about 45min. We order up an Über and to the rodeo.
Part 3: The Rodeo
We arrive at the rodeo and watch the first couple of riders and then I decided it’s time to drink more. While I was getting a drink I ran into a coworker who could obviously tell that I was hammered (tomorrow will be awkward). After about 2 hours of the rodeo my friends and I decided we had seen enough and it was time to hit the bars.
Part 4: Rodeo Postgame Party
We walked from the rodeo to the local watering hole for yuppies such as ourselves. I begin ordering more drinks and getting loose on the dance floor. I’m dancing with a few girls and some friends when out of no where I feel my knee give out and I fall to the ground in front of the girls and my friends. I limp my way to my good friend who ordered us an Über back to his place to finish the night.
Part 5: The Aftermath
I woke up with my left knee throbbing and I knew I had to make that phone call no one ever wants to make to their parents. I knew I had fucked up and needed to get to the hospital. I called my mom and let her know why had happened and she said “well we haven’t met our deductible yet so this will all be out of your pocket.” I made my way to and urgent care where I had 2 x-rays that looked fine but the doctor warned me that if I couldn’t walk within 4 days I needed to see an orthopedic surgeon and get an mri scan for any torn tendons or ligaments. Now I have to lay in bed and patiently wait for the doctor visit bill and see if I can walk in 4 days.
I hope your weekend went a lot better than mine did!
When I first read “rodeo,” I thought you were going to get the shit beaten out of you. And then when I saw you referred to yourself as a “yuppie,” I definitely thought you were going to get the shit beaten out of you.
Do you recall that friend in college that you made an absolute shit-show ruckus with?
The friend that you would be concerned for their behavior at your wedding, post-booze?
Well one of those friends of mine, just came into town this weekend and i missed work this morning because her visit royally damaged my organs, liver and brain included. I also appear to have pulled a muscle in my glute, impairing my ability to walk. There are unknown bruises that I really couldn’t begin to explain.
My drunken alter-ego also did some (very, very) questionable things.
So i have a boyfriend (of a solid year), who is an overall great person. When my friend came into town, and I picked her up from the airport, he was unable to join the festivities, as he was tied up with work, so it was deemed an all girls night.
We met up with my friends’ friends, all of which were gorgeous (one was a professional dancer for an NBA team, and another was a contestant for Miss America).
This formula was a fast-track route to many free-drinks straight to BLACKOUT-city.
Then came the text from an attractive guy whom I hadnt seen since sophomore year in college but occasionally see on social media. He met up with us at this rooftop bar, and to my (very fuzzy) knowledge, I believe I made out with him on the dance floor (very classy, i know).
We ended up bar-hopping together, and we departed separately.
Well when I arrived home (after furiously trying to venmo our uber driver an unnecessary huge tip), one of my male roommates, was in his room looking sad (or so i demanded he tell me what happened). He confessed his girlfriend had broken up with him and he was very upset.
I’m not sure what the literal fuck is wrong with me, but I took it upon myself to also make out with him as well. When I realized what the fuck I was doing, I jumped off of him and apologized, and immediately ran to my room.
Luckily, he put his 30 day notice in a little while ago, so I only have to endure this absolute embarrassment of passing him in the halls awkwardly for another 10 days or so. (But god, it is awful).
Anyway, I feel terrible for my actions.
And i have an innocent boyfriend in the cross hairs of all of my terrible behavior.
Do i fess up and tell him the truth about making out with two guys in the same night (one being my roommate)?
Or do i keep my mouth shut?
The girl whose Sunday Scaries have moved to Monday and onward.
I know I’m supposed to attempt to make you feel better but, uh, I don’t think that’s happening. Sure, you can tell your boyfriend but he’s 100% going to dump you. Conversely, you can keep dating this guy and make terrible decisions only for him to eventually find out and then dump you in a more heartbreaking fashion for both of you.
I normally leave the relationship advice to Dillon, but please just tell your boyfriend you’re not ready to be in a relationship. Because you’re not.
Sidenote: “Girls nights” are legitimately one of my favorite things in the world solely because they spiral so quickly. I’ve written about this numerous times but it just never gets old. What starts with sushi and champagne ends with 1. at least two girls crying 2. at least two girls realizing they hate all their friends and 3. every girl dispersing and calling the respective guy they set out to ignore for the entire night.
Well, here I am fighting a three-day hangover (a personal record) and still chugging water as if I was left for dead in a desert in mid-July. This shit show started Friday when I visited some college friends in Minneapolis. Day began how you’d expect, slow and steady drinking at a brewery followed by aggressive pregaming to forget that it was -10º outside. Got downtown to the bar around 11pm and that’s where memory fades. I ran into about 15 people that I know including my ex’s best friend and some frat stars that I apparently challenged to a drinking contest, because my friends allege I took enough shots to take down a championship horse. Ex’s best friend and I then proceed to chug tequila and the black out begins. My last memory is a jumble of tequila with the ex’s friend and making eyes across the bar at one of the most attractive human beings I’ve ever seen.
Black in the next morning at 7:30am in a stranger’s bed with 16 missed calls and 24 unanswered text messages. My last sent text to my friends simply read “Help.” Solid. I manage to stumble out of this apartment and get into an Uber, at which point I realize my purse reeks of vomit, and to top it all off I’m not even in Minneapolis city limits anymore. Show up to brunch still drunk, continue to drink to try and delay the inevitable hangover, while also trying to convince my friends to not be mad at me as they dive into what happened the night before. Turns out after eye-fucking said attractive human being, I confidently walked over and we had an aggressive bar makeout, disappeared into the crowd, and went home together. And my ex’s best friend had a front row seat for all of this.
Still not sure why I texted my friends an SOS call because my one night stand had the bod of a greek god. Except buddy had the audacity to not ask for my phone number when I was leaving in the morning. Whatever. After brunch I end up vomming in a Target parking lot with a grandma watching me from her SUV. Then had to go stock up for the party we were throwing that night. Didn’t really sober up until my flight Sunday afternoon. It’s probably for the best I left the state before the Vikes won. I would have probably woken up in fucking Duluth Monday morning.
You have to think that the tequila altered your thinking when you saw “the most attractive human being” you’ve ever seen, right? I don’t even know why I phrased that as a question. Of course it did.
And if there’s one way to send your friend group into a frenzy, it’s by sending a “help” text only to not follow up.
GOD help me.
This may be a little late considering its a story from Halloween but here it goes:
My friend (lets call her Emma) and I go to this party the weekend before halloween. As soon as we arrive, we quickly realize that we are NOT wearing enough clothes to be at this party. Everyones wearing jeans and normal shit (basically not even halloween except maybe a basketball jersey here and there) and I’m wearing camo booty shorts that ride up my ass, a basically non existent top, and glitter tattoo of the american flag on my hip. That is some ratchet shit right there.
Upon realizing that I looked like a cheap street hooker, I decided chugging some Malibu to combat my embarrassment would be a swell idea. Emmas talking to some guy shes been getting with and I’m not feeling the Malibu whatsoever. People start pulling GBs in the backyard and I’m like fuck it. Took colossal 2 hits (kind of a pussy) and headed back inside to get more fucked. So i end up getting the weed to hit the second I start feeling drunk and am having trouble moving. I couldnt feel my body.
My solution: more Malibu.
Sat on the couch upstairs (everyone else was downstairs ponging) and basically just laid shlump there for about 10 minutes (which felt like a year). Decided it would probably be best to just uber home and call it a night. I cant type to call my uber so I have Emma do it for me. It ends up waiting 10 minutes because i started yacking as soon as it arrived. That motherfucker cancelled (cant really blame him- probably for the best). get emma to call me another uber. when its a minute away, someone yells cops. I fucking skrted so fast. Starting running probably very slowly thinking I was running for my dear life. Turns out the fucking bitch throwing the party just wanted everyone out and decided to scare me shitless.
It was only about 10pm by this point. Some guy got me a bag (same guy who i drunkenly gave head on a bench a couple months prior) and yacked like the fucking world was about to end. Quickly realized that whilst spewing uncontrollably, I was peeing a little bit. Without realizing it. Basically, peed and vomited in the uber (45 minute ride- poor driver). Got home, saw my parents through the front window and decided I was far too nude and shmacked to deal with having to talk to them. Went in through the garage- took 10 mins for me to figure out how to open it whilst once again puking uncontrollably. Opened the door, walked inside, my brother found me basically spewing my intestines out and told me that I had to go upstairs to speak to my parents. FUCK. THAT. SHIT. Pushed my brothers friend and his girlfriend off the couch while they were making out and passed out there. Literally a foot away from the door. Thats how fucking far I got. Parents came down at some point later- asked why i was home so early- my drunken lie of an explanation: I had explosive diahreaa and was so embarrassed that I had to leave. Next morning, woke up on another couch in the house one floor up covered in vomit and urine. Parents havent mentioned it since.
Was I supposed to know that “GBs” are “gravity bongs” upon reading “GBs”? Or am I just old as hell? Or are you just 16 because you’re running from the cops and drinking Malibu while still living with your parents? I’m so confused. I apologize for everyone having to read this. Cue the commenters complaining about undergrads.
Hi Will. I am scared. FILLED with scaries.
Allow me to explain.
After going relatively hard on Friday, the decision was made to go easy on Saturday and just watch the Patriots game. Our squad was mostly girls and we aren’t really that into football, so we made up for the boring game by pounding drinks. obviously. Ended up at a bar. This is where things got fuzzy. Woke up Sunday morning in a guys bed across the city, and WITH NO FEELING IN THE ENTIRE FRONT HALF OF MY TONGUE. you read that correctly. It feels almost as though all my taste buds are burnt off- and I hoped that somehow my drunken escapades had led me to consume very hot soup or something while blackout, but now it is Tuesday afternoon and there has been zero sign of improvement. I am too afraid to check web md. On top of it all my friends informed me that my bar make-out body count for the 2 hours we were at the bar was eight men. eight. men.
Pray for my taste buds & my dignity.
After an aggressive night when I was about 21, I woke up and my tongue uvula (you know, the punching bag in the back of your throat) was swollen to the point where it was literally resting on my tongue. Very concerned and sleeping on a couch, I sat there for two hours hoping it would remedy itself. It didn’t. I had no choice but to call my cousin who is an emergency room doctor. Fearing she was going to tell me I needed to hightail it to the hospital, I was happy to receive the following advice: “Just keep drinking.”
I don’t know how and I don’t know why, but it worked. Sure, I’m not an ER doctor, but what I’m saying is that maybe you should give it a shot.
But, it probably doesn’t work because it’s riddled with disease from MAKING OUT WITH EIGHT DUDES THE NIGHT BEFORE. I think mine was just from sleeping with my mouth open for seven straight hours. At least, I hope that that’s what it was from because I don’t think I made out with anyone that night.
Long time reader, first time sender. I lead a relatively lowkey life. Today i come to you, not with a tale of drunken shenanigans (yet) but with a tale of confused fury? Im not even sure if thats the right way to describe this. This will be somewhat long as im typing this hammered after being rejected at the bar by a beautiful girl lightyears beyond my planet of scum.
A little background, i recently moved from the great northeast to the wild southwest for work #newyearnewcitynewme. I thought i knew what i was in for with this new job at a new firm but boy was i wrong. At the time of leaving work thursday (my second full week of work) i had logged 45+ hours this week. Needless to say when i got to the office early this morning i was well beyond ready for the weekend and quite seriously considering drinking at my desk. At approximately 9:17 am, my manager asked me what plans i had this weekend. Mind you, i am brand new in town and know three people, two of which are my roommates that i found on craigslist and one who is a girlfriend of one of said roommates . So my plans this weekend were “get drunk and try to make more friends at the local bars”. Regrettably, i said this to my manager. Who then responded “great, ill see you sunday. Be here at 1” with no choice but to agree, my weekend disappeared before my eyes.
Its worth mentioning that my roommate received a free case of beverages perfect for to mix with binge drinking shitty alcohol and i will definitely be hungover if not residually drunk sunday wheni showup to work. My friday has disappeared but i do have a wondrous street meat hotdog in my hand at the time of writjng. Its two and a half weeks in and im fearful my life as i know has ended. One day weekends after 50+ hour weeks will end my fragile soul. Send help, Will. I beg of you.
I’ve got bad news for you. If 50+ hour weeks are reason enough for you to write in, you’ve got a long road ahead of you.
Well Will, the altitude got me. Got talked last minute into going on a weekend Lake Tahoe trip with some friends. I had been doing the Sober January thing and hadn’t had any slip ups until this weekend but I knew that coming on this trip would be the end of that. Started Saturday off with an Irish coffee and a few domestic lights on a hike.
After dinner we proceeded to drinking everything in sight. Wine, beer, whiskey and numerous tequila shots. At this point I was already going downhill and getting a little sloppy. A couple more tequila shots and a few beers at the bar and I’m on full blackout autopilot mode. We went to another extremely nice bar/restaurant with live music and got a few more beers. Keep in mind this place is typically a restaurant with extremely expensive food. A ritzy joint. At this point I set my head down on the table to “rest my eyes” and my friend pours a little bit of her beer in my ear as a joke. I pop up off the table and proceed to snag her beer and toss it high over my shoulder like some blacked out Steve Nash. The bottle hits a mirror that by some miracle does not break but makes a huge crash, at which point a waiter descends upon us and informs that that we need to “get the fuck out of here” which seems like a fair assessment of the situation. Got an Uber back home and passed out. I am now in the back seat on a three hour trip back to San Francisco with a chihuahua mix on my lap and some friends who I assume hate me now. This hangover may be the one that finally ends me. Cheers.
I blame your friends. This isn’t on you, man. Once they see you hard-blinking and needing to rest your eyes while you’re out, they need to get you the hell out of there. Sure, it’s your fault you went into blackout auto-pilot, but I hope they spent their Sunday watching Band of Brothers to get a few life lessons.
I fucked up at work a few months ago and I think it’s all going to come to a head this week. It’s been a slow build of tension and I’m terrified of my boss.
Just walk in with a smile and have a plan for damage control. Can’t fire someone with an ear-to-ear grin.
i had sex with a stripper.
Sent from my iPhone X
As always, send your stories into firstname.lastname@example.org and wash those Sunday Scaries away. See you next week. Same time, same place. Unless I get fired beforehand like that guy a couple stories up. .