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There’s this whole thing called “Sober January” going on, and I must say, it’s plaguing our country. I thought that it may affect the stories that roll in for this week’s column, but lo and behold, this weekend turned out to be a barrage of stories that none of us would want to relive.
Alright, let’s get into this week’s crop of stories which can be found unedited in quotes below.
It may be Monday, but I’ve been living like every day is the weekend for the past month, and I go back to the grind tomorrow so today is my Sunday. See below:
Zero alcohol involved but still very Scary:
It’s Monday. The day I lived twice, thanks to the International Date Line. I’m finally half-way settled back in my apartment after being gone for a month (read: I have a laundry pile the size of Everest and zero groceries). I spent the most recent 12 days traveling New Zealand with one of my best friends (who is Kiwi). Probably the most spectacular trip I’ll probably ever go on, but after over 24 hours in transit (planes, trains, and automobiles), the colossal amount of crap I have to get done this week is setting in. It’s not Sunday, but it may as well be: real life resumes tomorrow. I’m a graduate teaching assistant (free school!) and I have a major work deadline on Friday morning. On top of that, I’m studying for the CPA exam (taking all four exams before May–might die in the process). My trip to NZ means I’ve fallen behind my program’s study schedule so I’ll probably have to put in an extra 8 or 9 hours of studying on top of the 40+ hours already scheduled for this week (in addition to the aforementioned deadline AND class). I knew what I was doing to myself when I booked my plane ticket but it’s still gonna be rough.
John Mayer, my essential oil diffuser (queued up with lavender), and photos from my trip are easing me into an early bedtime. Here’s hoping I can sleep off the Scaries.
Hope your Monday night’s better than mine.
I’ll say this: just be happy you did the trip. I’m a 31-year-old guy who never really took a trip to the other side of the world just to get away. Yeah, it may seem like there’s a lot of pieces to pick up after the fact but the perspective you (hopefully) got from the trip will eventually outweigh the minutia.
As for me, I’ll just go back to surfing Japan powder skiing videos on Vimeo.
Writing this in the middle of the night because the scaries are too bad to sleep. I interviewed for my dream job yesterday and it went really well. I was riding high until I got to my apartment to find I had been robbed. Someone took my computer, iPad, passport, and every single piece of jewelry I own, including grandmother and great grandmother’s heirlooms. The cops dusted for prints but determined that the burglar was wearing gloves so they couldn’t get anything. The worst part is that they had a key and only two places in my whole apartment had been touched: the drawer where I kept my jewelry and a trunk in my closet which means they had been snooping around my apartment before. Even though it was definitely their fault, my apartment complex owners are basically blaming me in order to not admit their guilt. I have to start looking for a new apartment tomorrow, which will be tricky without a computer.
Thanks for reading; I’m a huge fan but never thought I would have anything to send in.
This just gave me more secondhand anxiety than some of the drunkest stories in the history of this series.
…and then she followed up.
Forgot to add that they left my tv, beats headphones, Blu-ray player, and roku… not sure what to make of that but somehow feels more creepy.
Yeah, I’m not a detective nor am I a fan of cop shows, but this seems like a major red flag. Have fun searching PadMapper at your local library though.
This is my favorite column and I haven’t had a ridiculous enough weekend since college to write in about.
So one of my best friends just moved out of the country on Monday, so she planned a wine tour upstate as her sending off. I’d been talking to this guy consistently for a couple months after we hooked up in 2014 and he texted me after seeing a Snapchat of me; he lives upstate so he invited me to chill Friday night and stay over. He picked me up from the airport and we got a case of yeungling and went to his apt and began casually drinking and playing Picolo with his roommate and roommates gf.
We walk to this bar near there house and I bought us two vodka sodas and ran into my friend from colleges brother. My friends brother was hitting on me and I introduced them bc he kinda gave me a look, and friends brother stands up to assert his dominance (he was a marine) and they exchange extremely passive aggressive convo for about 10 minutes. Guy i came with goes to chat with his other friends, friends brother asks me why I came with him and said I should come home with him instead, because he will fuck me and will order me an uber to the other guys place in the morning (??? Shoot your shot I guess) obviously I did not do that.
So me and guy go to his place surprisingly drunk after 4-5 beers and a vodka soda each and have great sex twice. First time he pulls out, second time he comes in me and when I like uh did you come in me he’s like you’re not on birth control?? Uhh NO idiot. We go to sleep. In the morning we talk about getting plan b and how he has to drive me an hour to my friends wine tour. We go to CVS and he gives me his card and does not come in with me which was obviously annoying af. No you’re not my boyfriend but you should go get it by yourself because NO ONE TOLD YOU TO COME IN ME! Then he tells me he has to go to work and he will split the uber with me. I order an Uber and it says $60, but I had to change the destination bc my friends already left her house to go to the wine tour. Uber driver was fantastic and gave me a knife to open my plan b and also told me the guy was an idiot but she understood I needed to get some dick (haven’t gotten laid since May).
Wine tour started with my friend who was already drunk yelling to everyone that I took an $80 uber here because I had to get dick. She ended up hammered and at the last place I was decently drunk and her stepdad started hitting on me. We go to her friends grandparents house to emotionally prepare to go out again, and drunk and hormonal because of plan b, I text my ex boyfriend who lives in her town. We go out and my ex meets us says how good it is to see me and invites me to smoke an ice bong and my other friend grabs my arm and makes fun of his hair (which is an atrocity to be honest. His hairline is very much receding but he has chosen to keep it long as if that is working for him), he overhears and leaves the bar in a hissy fit. We leave eventually and on the way home, my friend asks to be dropped off at her house despite the fact that we’re staying at HER friends grandparents house. Her friend says it’s not surprising she is being selfish, and my friend proceeds to cry for 45 minutes.
In conclusion, guy only ends up venmoing $25 which is fine I guess bc plan b is $50, we haven’t talked since and my friend and I fly home the next day where I got stoned and ordered sushi and contemplated if the dick was even worth it. I still have the scaries now because the plan b box says “reduces the changes of pregnancy” so eternal scaries until I get my period!
If I had a dollar every time I contemplated if the dick was even worth it over sushi— wait, nevermind.
This story right here. Wild ride. Wild ride. But yeah, the guy you had a dick appointment with sounds like a real tool. Not to get all Dillon mailbag-y on you, but to all the guys reading out there — if she needs to get Plan B, at least have the decency to pay for it. It’s exponentially cheaper than having a kid with someone you hooked up with on a whim and it’s a small price to pay to be a gentleman.
So I’ve heard.
I’m only just now discovering your wonderful site, so this story is old but still worth sharing.
My boyfriend invited me, my friend (let’s call her Kate) and her newish boyfriend (Ben) along on a trip back to his hometown of New Orleans. I should have known from the first suggestion of bourbon street what a shitshow the weekend would be.
First night there, we meet up with some of his old buddies and the drinks start flowing. One or two or ten hurricanes later and Kate is projectile vomiting on the sidewalk. Some of said vomit splashes onto the foot of a very large, very loud woman walking by. She screams as if we had shanked her. Then tries to yell at Kate, who lifts her head to look at the woman just in time to hurl all over her. Beautiful. Fucking beautiful. We bolted out of that situation as fast as possible.
I take Kate back to the Airbnb, get her cleaned up and tucked in. The night is still young and I don’t want to waste my short time in NOLA, so I heard back out to meet the guys. Again, all is going well until I notice Ben grinding up on some girl and feeling her up. After a brief confrontation where he insists there’s nothing wrong with dancing, the night spins into a drunken blur.
We wake up on Saturday and start brunching. Drinks are flowing again. At some point Kate and I are back at the Airbnb to freshen up while the boys go on a beer run. She mentions Ben and I must have drunkenly muttered something, because she ends up pulling the whole dancing story out of me. I make her promise not to confront Ben yet because I don’t want my boyfriend’s weekend with his buddies ruined. Of course at the next bar, she drunkenly confronts him. This leads to a fight where she storms out. I try to follow her, and Ben grabs my arm. I grew up with a pack of roughhousing male cousins, so I’m not being over dramatic when I say he was holding me hard enough to fucking hurt, all while shouting in my face about starting drama.
Boyfriend and his friends obviously don’t like this. Next thing I know, my boyfriend has ripped Ben off me and they are beating the everloving shit out of each other. Bouncers pull them apart in record time and toss all of our asses outside, where Ben storms off and we have to explain the situation to a pair of surprisingly understanding cops.
Kate texts Ben to get his own hotel and never talk to her again. He doesnt come back to the Airbnb and, as a cherry on top, misses our flight home. Turns out, he got absolutely shithoused on his own and arrested for being a drunk asshole. He texted Kate the story later and said it was her fault for locking him out. I can only imagine the Sunday scaries he had from jail, knowing his flight home was taking off and he would not make it back in time for work Monday. Oh, and he was supposedly already on thin ice at work for being late and taking too many days off. Serves the asshole right, I still don’t know what Kate saw in this dude.
Not to make you feel worse than you already do, but I low key might rather get shanked than have someone puke on my shoes. Totally depends on the shoes, though. Vans? Yeah, puke on them. Deal sleds or Yeezys? Slice me open, fam. Take my organs.
Pretty remarkable the consecutive stories we’ve got this week dealing wito two toolbags, though. Glad your boyfriend beat the shit out of that guy because if your girlfriend is at home possibly choking on her own puke, you probably shouldn’t be bumping uglies on the dance floor of a New Orleans bar. It’s probably one of the only cities in America where you can get an STD just from grinding.
I’ve been exhibiting at CES throughout the week on behalf of my employer. Free lodging, food, and booze for a week in Vegas, right? Not quite. I came down with dramatic spat of either food poisoning or a stomach virus during day 2 of the show, leading to several fits of simultaneous evacuations from multiple orifices. My absence at the booth was noted by the scheduling manager, who began to grill coworkers in an attempt to unearth some sort of elaborate hangover coverup. After 24 hours of fever, aches, bodily issues, and apparently controversy… my $30 in Gatorade room service allowed for a comeback the following day. However, it is now the final day of the show, I’m once again fighting nausea, and no longer have a the ability to hunker down in a hotel room. A fear of vomiting in front of coworkers and the tech elite has lead to a self-banishment in the storage room of our booth. 2 hours down, 3 to go. Writing this under the impending dread of fighting back everything my body has in store during the 3 hour flight back on the company’s private plane. Which, by the way, only has one bathroom- completely open to the rest of the cabin.
With any luck, I’ll make it to Sunday.
Need an update from you and I need it yesterday. I hope a full-body explosion didn’t happen mid-flight, but it sounds like it was imminent.
Started the night out at a minor league hockey game. Beers were going down too smooth. Ended up hitting the local bars for a period. Gonna cut to the point. Dropped off my friend at his house who lives in the same neighborhood as me but insisted that i walk home rather than get back in the Uber. Made it about 50 yards down the road before i decided to take a “short cut” through the woods. Ended up stomping through peoples back yards like Jim Lahey and ended up on a major road one mile from my house (was only two blocks from my house originally). Was walking down the major road where I was stopped by the police. They searched me and asked my story. Asked them for a ride but they informed me they had a dog in the back. Told them I was good with dogs and that it was fine but they refused. Ended up finally making It back to my house. Life is in shambles and pretty sure the neighborhood thinks I’m retarded.
I know this probably sucked for you, but we may have just come up with a Shark Tank-esque idea. UberDOG. Are you telling me you wouldn’t pay an upcharge on the way home from the bars if it meant there was a friendly dog in the backseat of your Uber? No, you aren’t, because that sounds fucking amazing.
The yuppie life has caused me to hate any drive more than an hour these days. Instead of driving from Washington, D.C. to Pittsburgh this weekend, I booked a round trip regional puddle jumper to stave off the inevitable Sunday Scaries on the trip home. Traveling this way shaves off 4 hours and I get an open bar at the lounges on both ends…perfect.
The folks of Pittsburgh and my cousins I am here to see can drink…a lot. Waking up with an awful hangover on their couch and not even realizing what kind of night I had until after arriving at my layover from (PIT) Pittsburgh to (DUJ) DuBois, Pennsylvania. I pray you never have to visit this airport because being the only one besides a lone TSA agent on a two-hour layover is mentally exhausting for any day of the week. Combine the solitude with the incredible timing of the breakup text “I just don’t see our lives working together long term” and subsequent emotional goodbye phone call I never saw coming. All of this is happening as I stared out over the depressing, never ending field of white snow and a visible -3 degrees on the tarmac thermometer.
Desperation to get back to DC and find any human connection is setting in and I would settle to talk to another human on the plane until I am home but that just became impossible. I am currently alone and writing you at around 10,000-12,000 feet on a 14 seater plane. Now most would say stop complaining because chartering a plane alone is on the level of Dan Bilzerian before everyone realized he is a tool. But at this moment I feel ambivalent to the choices of arriving to DC safely or finding out if this plane shares any character flaws with Icarus.
The captain won’t even talk to me…
I have never been this alone in my life…
My sincerest apologies. Getting broken up with? Sucks. Getting broken up with prior to a flight where you’re battling a hangover? Pretty much worst case scenario.
Honest question: would you have even cared if that flight had gone down? Sure, you die, but you also win the breakup because of her never-ending guilt.
I never thought I’d be writing in to share my weekend. My weekends are pretty average with a sprinkle of poor decisions, until this last night. I was invited over to my Russian friend’s house for a small dinner party to celebrate the Russian New Year. The night started off pretty low key, the women huddled in the kitchen to help cook and the men sat out in the living room chatting while watching terrible Russian music videos.
About an hour into the dinner party someone decided we needed to take vodka shots. I’m not a shots person, without fail I always blackout when I do even just one. Fast forward a few hours and I’ve lost count of how many shots were taken. This is where my night went completely black. I woke up this morning in the guest bedroom of another friend’s house. He was nowhere to be found and neither were my purse and car keys. I have no idea how I got there or how I got in without keys. When my friend got home he informed me he put me in an Uber after I passed out at the party. He doesn’t have my purse, and I realize it’s probably in the Uber. Then I’m hit with a wave of memories. The Uber dropped me off and left before I got in the house. With no way to contact him and no way to get into the locked house, and the temps in the 20s I needed to find a way to get inside ASAP. I hoped the fence and decided I would see if I could crawl through the dog door to get inside. It worked. I CRAWLED through the dog door to get inside. This probably could have been avoided if I just called my friend and told him I left my purse in the Uber. I will never be going to another dinner party at the Russian’s house.
The fact that you went to a Russian’s house for Russian New Year and thought you wouldn’t be taking down shots is downright ignorant. I feel like that’s what Russian people do when they celebrate. Just shots of vodka to the face until things fade to black. That’s the cost you incur when you drink with Russians.
I took part in all-you-can-eat chicken tenders at Applebee’s and I’ve never felt closer to death. I won’t wish that physical agony I felt on my worst enemy.
I enjoyed this. This is one of those ideas that sounds like a good idea until it isn’t.
My housemate flooded our house by trying to unclog a sink. She turned off the water to the house, started unscrewing pipes for some reason, and then never rescrewed them. She turned the water to the house back on and left the house, so when she came back it was flooded. It will be at least a couple weeks before all the repairs are made to fix the house and we can move back in.
Then, I drunkenly ordered over $300 worth of GlamGlow.
You need to find a new roommate. ASAP. This is next-level dumbassery. As the type of person who gets shelled whenever they talk to a mechanic or someone who fixes things around the house, can’t imagine thinking it’s a good idea to try to unclog a sink myself. YouTube can only get you so far before you’re displaced because you flooded your joint.
Might be a little late with this…
Love (hate?) the vicarious scaries I get from these. Was certain I’d eventually earn one of my own. Got it.
I’ve been working and living in the Philippines for a few years now. Part of my job description is entertaining clients when they come to town. We had a client in who wanted to grab some drinks before his flight back home (16 hours in the air), so we ditched the office and went to my local bar, or as I like to call it, “Church.”
I’ve been out of school almost a decade now, so I feel like postgrad shouldn’t really describe me, but I can’t shake my affinity for Jaeger Bombs and Beer Pong. Needless to say, we indulged.
Said client then decides he’d like to hit the hotel and shower/finish packing before his flight. This leaves me with 4 hours before I take him to the airport. What do you do with that kind of time to kill in Manila? Go get a massage, happy ending mandatory, of course.
Disclaimer: live here long enough and you learn to identify the lady boys, so this story is not going that way. Rather, I have a totally normal instinct to document all sexual encounters I have. So with my massage professional’s permission, I snapped some photos for future use. Fully relaxed, I get back to the client and get him to his flight safely and timely.
I decide I’m not ready to call it a day, so I drag my company driver to a bar with me so I can drink to oblivion and give him life and career advice.
I wake up at home sometime later, no recollection of getting there, or what time I got in. Faced with my girlfriend of 1 year plus. Who found previously mentioned photos. Plus an email conversation with a lady of the night with whom I “interacted” several weeks prior.
My girlfriend and I work together…
The Philippines is dangerous. Please pray for me.
No, Random Internet Person, I will not pray for you. Did you also Venmo said masseuse for half of a Plan B?
As always, send your worst weekend stories to firstname.lastname@example.org. Always anonymous, always entertaining. Don’t do it for me, do it for anyone sitting at their desk with a two-day hangover. .