December is an absolute bender. This we know. One second it’s after Thanksgiving and you’ve got the holidays to look forward to, and the next it’s January 3rd and you’re ten pounds heavier and licking the wounds of your bank account.
I’d say to be responsible, but that’s pointless. Especially given this weekend’s stories.
Alright, let’s get into this weekend’s crop of stories which can be found unedited in quotes below.
This past week I was in sunny, warm and welcoming New York City for work. Now, given that I am what you would call, a drinker, I have a poor history of showing up to NY for work and getting absolutely obliterated with my coworkers. I’ve knocked out several with “the worst hangover I’ve ever had” after a night out. I don’t want that to sound like I’m bragging, but I’m kind of bragging.
Anyway this week, I decided it was going to be different. No one was going to vomit (especially on me), no one would end up sleeping in a bathtub after being rejected by a D-list celebrity, my brand new iPhone X would not suffer the same fate as my 6s and be smashed into oblivion on the streets of Greenpoint, I wouldn’t end up taking a 6 AM panic Uber back to Brooklyn from Harlem on a Thursday—all of which have happened! But NOT this time. This was going to be an adult business trip. A successful, no messes, adult business trip.
And I managed to do that. I was in bed at a reasonable hour. I discovered a HUGE love of salads from Sweetgreen. I did a sheet mask every night while watching The O.C. for fuck’s sake!
Until. Friday. Night.
Friday I was swamped with work during the day and barely had time to eat lunch. But that was fine, right? I had the leftovers of a stupid $60 I spent at Whole Foods back at the corporate apartment. Everything was going to be fine. Even though it was my last night in NY and my favorite coworker and I decided we were going out, it was going to be fine. Even as we polished off a bottle of rosé at said apartment and I ate a measly, single bowl of 365 carrot soup, it was going to be fine.
Well, Will. It wasn’t fine.
We promptly went down to a bar below said corporate apartment where I polished off three gin and tonics in less time than it takes to watch an episode of one of the best shows to ever air, The O.C. And all that I had for a base was half a bottle of rosé, half a kale salad from Sweetgreen, and said single measly bowl of Whole Foods carrot soup. I downed those G&Ts like I was being paid to do so. I downed them like they were water (and didn’t have any water to counter it). I downed them like my life depended on it and there was a gun to the back of my head to pressure me into to the downing.
And then we decided it would be a great idea to meander to a ~fancy~ rooftop hotel bar and I stood up, I felt how fast I’d downed them.
Now, I’m not a huge slob-kabob when it comes to drinking. I know, I know. Everyone says that. But I’m really not. Aside from occasionally stealth throwing up in the bathroom to be able to keep going (live for a shoot and reload, tbqh) and every now and then Irish Goodbye-ing to put myself to bed (which I truly think is actually, responsible!) I don’t have too many drunk habits that are all that cringe-worthy. These days I usually just wake up at home, no drunk texts sent but several ignored, with some chips in bed with me and a cocktail I made but never consumed. See? Not that terrible.
But the one thing I’ve honestly never, never had an issue with, is being the drunk who can’t stand up straight.
Until. This. Friday. Night.
Some curb in around Bedford got the better than me, and like Fall Out Boy in 2005, sugar I went down swinging. I hit the pavement as my coworker looked on in horror and I have a very clear memory of thinking, “Just lay here for a minute. You deserve it. This is what you deserve, you mess.”
On the way down (like Ryan Cabrera in 2004, not quite ’05) I managed to bang the ever-living-fuck out of my knees, scraping open my favorite pair of trusty, black Levi’s in the process. And I also ripped open a very painful set of blisters on the back of my left heel that, no pun intended, wouldn’t heal. I caught myself with both palms who naturally didn’t make it out unscathed, and then found myself lying on a sidewalk in Brooklyn, silently contemplating where I’ve gone wrong in life. (Spoiler alert: Everywhere. Like Michelle Branch in 2001. You’re welcome for all of these classic, classic throwbacks in a story about me eating shit in Brooklyn.)
I got back up actually pretty quickly and ignored my coworker insisting that I needed to go back to the apartment for Bandaids. Why should I have listened to her, you ask? Well because I definitely bled all over some glasses at a hotel bar (that I barely remember being at in the first place) and now there’s blood all over the sleeve of my favorite denim jacket where I was clearly trying to hide the fact that I was, you know, BLEEDING IN A BAR.
Needless to say, I now very much know eating before drinking is NOT optional for me.
And good for you, Williamsburg. Way to not let me leave without going out with a literal bang.
Take care, Will. Hope you’ve been living a better life than me.
As someone who drank three gin-and-tonics on a flight before noon yesterday, I can confirm that nothing good happens after them. I mean, who even drinks tonic anymore? That’s like telling people you drink three Cokes a day. Just so much sugar.
Anyway, I digress. My thoughts go out to your battered body.
So I’m a fairly new Toucher, so coming across the Worst Weekend segment reminded me of a time I still wish I could forget.
Let’s set the stage: May 5th, 2017 (yes, I know not recent but just hear me out). It’s my 26th birthday, just got my hair done, and I’m feeling fly as fuck. We planned on hitting up Downtown Houston (none of that midtown bullshit) that evening, so obligatory margs were necessary for a solid pregame.
We get a solid buzz going, roll up in a couple Uber XLs to Boots N Shoots, and we all proceed to get litty. Couple bottles later, we are having a grand ole time, and we decide to hop around.
As a female, it’s a well known fact that we proceed to become BFFs with any female stranger we encounter. So, at the next bar, I meet Natalie and her boyfriend, Timmy. Natalie is super cool and down AF to take some tequila shots (hopefully Avion, but who knows at this point). She seemed super in control of herself and just super badass, so we tossed back a few shots, talked about stupid shit….and then something changed. It was like her soul left her body. (Micah, please pause for dramatic effect)
Needless to say, Natalie got kicked out of the bar after this sudden divine intervention. Since her boyfriend was mutual friends with some of our squad, we decided to go with them. It’s about 1:50 a.m at this time, and I ain’t about that surge life.
The bouncers basically lay her ass on the sidewalk, her boyfriend can hardly stand up at this time, so he was in no condition to take care of her…..so I did. I’m like slapping this bitch in the face making sure she isn’t dead, and she is literally not responding. I’m a healthcare professional, so I start to internally freak out and wonder if I should call 911. Meanwhile a bunch of people are walking by and putting their drunk ass two cents in, fights break out between randos and our squad, until finally we get in an uber. Our ride is going to be about 20 minutes back to the Heights.
I’m sitting in the back in the middle with Natalie on one side and Timmy on the other side. We get the dumbasses buckled in, the car drives about 40 yards, and I start to feel this warm sensation on my chest, stomach, and in my lap.
Natalie has proceeded to puke all over me…unconsciously. The uber pulls over, Timmy takes one look at Natalie, and also proceeds to puke on me. I am completely dumbfounded. Talk about a way to sober up real quick. I get out of the car, but we are still Downtown….so I have to ride all the way back to the Heights covered in puke…on my birthday.
Needless to say, Natalie and I did not remain friends, but I did Venmo request her for that $300 uber cleanup fee before cutting ties.
No no no no no no no. This is why you don’t make new friends. Drake said “no new friends” for a reason, and that reason was that someone probably puked on him in the back of an Uber after leaving a club in Houston or something.
Please tell me she hit you with that Venmo back. I could see this Natalie girl ghosting on you.
This edition of the scaries doesn’t directly effect me, but it’s about as close as you can get without emotional penetration.
I just got married in September, and I organized a get together for my wife’s 30th birthday today. We have a smaller friend group (roughly 14-16 people and couples, so 7 couples ish) and three of my buddies separately told me tonight their wives are pregnant.
I don’t know whether I am emotionally wrecked because I know I’m now in the on deck circle, or because I was genuinely happy for them. My raw gut reaction was happiness, and I think this is just me realizing I’m a lot closer to coaching TBall than fitting in at a Santacon pub crawl.
Sometimes the worst Sunday Scaries come from not drinking at all.
Last night I hosted my annual ugly sweater party which always serves as a humble reminder to my friends and I that we’re a bunch of degenerates. This year we really outdid ourselves. There was drinking, dancing, a photo booth, and a good time was had by all.
Well… that is until about 1:45 am when I got calls from three separate friends who had just left the party and said that there were cops in the lobby heading up to my apartment to respond to a noise complaint… At this point I was drunk and high and went into full panic mode. I scrambled to usher the last few party guests out my door and down the stairwell before the cops came up the elevator. When the cops knocked on the door there were THREE of them and they explained that they had noise complaints and needed to shut the party down. I feel like I need to clarify that these are three southeast DC cops who are probably used to responding to shootings and robberies, not ugly sweater parties thrown by yuppie white girls.
Once they realized no one was there anymore they laughed at the whole thing and were ready to leave me with just a verbal warning. I’m not sure if it was the alcohol or the weed but I was feeling very sassy and confident and instead of thanking them I proceeded to go off on a rant about how I’ve complained about noise in this building before and the cops have never come… not the move. Somehow they were kind enough that my rant didn’t have any consequences for me, but I’m sitting here now thinking about just how stupid I am to have yelled at nice cops who were just doing their jobs.
Moral of the story: I need to be a better neighbor and person, but that probably won’t happen.
Honestly, you were probably a breath of fresh air for these guys. They definitely went back to the squad car (only calling my Ubers “squad cars” for now on, by the way) and ripped on you. As they should have.
My boyfriend just moved into his new apartment which meant pregaming an open bar on empty stomachs. On our way to the open bar, we joked with our Lyft driver how we should have brought roadies. She offered to stop at the liquor store. My boyfriend and I killed a bottle of wine in the backseat during the half hour ride. Open bar is hazy, apparently not much damage done, except with my boyfriend. I asked him several times with the puppy face “we’re gonna get married right?” Thank God he found it funny.
On the way home in the Lyft he fell asleep in the backseat and I had to have the driver pull over so I could vomit all over the side of the road. Still hungover, and as an Eagles fan almost had a stroke during the game in which they almost lost to the 2-11 GIANTS. Now facing the fact that I have a field trip tomorrow (I’m a teacher at a Title One school) where I’ll have to keep my minions from getting lost or hurt all day. It will be a miracle if I’m no longer hungover in the morning. Send prayers.
There are several rules to follow when drinking that most of us – including me – write off. “Beer before liquor,” they say while we order shots at last call. “Don’t mix alcohols,” they tell us while we slug down a Long Island Ice Tea mixed with fifteen different liquors.
But the rule that’s most important that we never seem to follow? Eating a strong meal before drinking. Empty stomachs lead to blackouts, and blackouts lead to anxiety and hangovers.
Oh, and then she followed up at 7 p.m. last night.
Just remembered I have homework for grad school due at midnight. I need to reevaluate my life.
Had my first experiences with an office Christmas party and a bachelor party this weekend. Naturally, both led to me getting obliterated and making stupid decisions.
Friday night I was planning to have a chill night in as I’ve been sick and was anticipating some craziness Saturday night with the Christmas party. Well, that ended when one of my really good friends from HS calls me to tell me he’s in town for a bachelor party. I haven’t seen him in months, so I agree to meet them out. This led to me getting trashed and going back to their hotel with them. In hindsight, that wasn’t my best move and could’ve ended really badly considering I was outnumbered 8 to 1. Anyways, I ended up going back to my place with my HS friend and made some other questionable decisions.
I wake up Saturday morning feeling like shit and also with a friend of like 12 years naked in my bed. I take him back to his hotel and try to recover from my hangover before the Christmas party. This party was a two part event that started at a nice venue with classy drinks and hors d’oeuvres (this is an important because I didn’t eat all day due to my hangover) and the second part is an afterparty at a bar. My boss paid for an 3 hour long open bar. I double fist vodka sprites like I’m at fraternity formal and within an hour of the afterparty am pretty damn drunk thanks to the fact that all I’ve had to eat is plate of pigs in a blanket. I leave to get real food and go home. When I get home, my friend with the bachelor party tells me they’re at the bars already and another friend invites me out, so I call an Uber and head to the bars. The guys are extremely drunk already, so they’re buying me and my friends shot after shot. We all go back to their hotel and keep drinking excessively. My two friends leave to get food, but I decide to stay and hang out more.
Next thing I know, I’m on the balcony making out with the bachelor. At this point, all the other guys had passed out, and he convinces me to engage in some sexual activity because “it’s my bachelor party after all.” So not only did I hook up with a good friend, I also hooked up with his friend that’s getting married in 2 weeks. The sun comes up, and I take that as my cue to Uber home. However, my phone dies while I’m waiting outside the hotel, so my near-blacked out self decides I can just walk home as I only lived about a mile away. I almost make it home and then wipe out tearing up my knee and big toe in the process. I take off my heels and limp the last few blocks home. I’m still incredibly hungover and feeling an immense amount of scaries. I also can barely walk and have some massive hickeys. Maybe my New Years resolution should be learning how to drink responsibly.
Holy hell. Not only was that a whirlwind because I read the first part of it as if you were a male, but then the final paragraph gave me heart palpitations. I want to give you words of encouragement, but, uh, I don’t think I can. Maybe all of our New Year’s resolutions should be to drink responsibly…
So my friend is best friends with Miss (*state omitted*) 2016 and wanted to set us up since apparently I need to start dating better quality girls.
I meet them out at a bar and we surprisingly hit it off right from the start. We spent the night talking, vibing, and when we went to exchange numbers apparently we had matched on Tinder before a few years back (since her name already showed up in my phone). Should’ve been a red flag, I know.
Suddenly this girl she hooked up with before apparently walks through and wants to talk to her. They talk and then she leaves us alone. Next thing I know she starts drunkenly eating my face just so that the girl can see (I didn’t really consent to this but she’s hot so ehh watev).
Then one of her friends invites us all to an after party once the bar closed, which I unfortunately had to go with her to so that I could eventually get to her place like we agreed to before. After she pisses in a bush we make it in and she leads the way. She leads us into the bathroom and we make out, but she doesn’t want people to see us walking out together so she makes me hide in the bathtub for five minutes. I pass out there since I’m trashed and mentally checked out at this point and just wanna sleep and she wakes me up 15 min later. She gives me the key to her apartment and tells me she’ll meet me there in a few hours. My Uber driver and I struggle to get into her complex so I just take another Uber to my car and drunk drive over an hour back to my place, but not before throwing her key out the window just for fun.
I did send her an invoice the next day for wasting my time – $85.56 was the total bill for the night (I probably went a little overboard on tipping the bartender and the bathroom attendant and my Uber but just trying to spread some holiday cheer).
I’ll be awaiting my payment.
Is sending a Venmo after a date a douche move or a power move? Honestly asking because 1. it’s not something I’ve ever done and 2. it’s not something I’ve even considered doing. But I crushed first dates in my heyday so that’s probably why.
Some kid in my office who started relatively recently (~3 months) got kicked out of our holiday party on Friday before the VP’s speech and then sent a company wide email yesterday asking if anyone had found his phone because he lost it.
Can’t imagine his scaries right now.
What an IDIOT.
It’s taken me a solid week to write this to you as I’m still recovering from last weekend. To begin this story I flew to Louisiana to host a baby shower for a good friend of mine and for the most part it was a very calm weekend. I was scheduled to fly back Saturday evening to prepare myself for the week ahead.
Fast forward and due to expected severe weather my flight was delayed forcing me to stay an extra evening. Any sane human would have stayed in and prepared to fly home the next day but my next level psycho self chose to instead go to Bourbon street and partake in hand grenades and everclear jello shots. Rolled up late to the airport at 7:15 the next morning hungover and wreaking of booze and regrets only to be pushed on to a later flight and not getting home until 5:30 that evening. I had traffic court Monday and an important meeting with my boss Tuesday. I have no dignity left and got a call from my friend in Louisiana today to speak with me/ confirm about how I may have done the “no pants dance” with one of her husbands friends.
As someone who’s going to New Orleans over New Year’s Eve, this is not what I wanted to hear. Zero percent chance I drink hand grenades or jello shots, though. You know, because I’m not 19 years old anymore.
Got arrested. By law, for the crime I committed, you have to stay in a holding cell for 24 hours. So from 10:30PM Saturday to 10:30PM Sunday I was behind bars. And needless to say, the drunk tank makes a shitty panic room. Christmas conversation around the table this year is going to be great!
PS-Does Dave do pro bono work?
Dave does not to pro bono work. The only work he does is pro bon–
Nevermind, that fruit was too low-hanging.
My Saturday started off innocuously enough. After a long work week, I decided to blow off some steam with an old friend at brunch. When our spread of steak & eggs and bloody marries inevitably hit instagram stories, a certain lady was presumably intrigued by our vibe. After some DMing, we agreed to go to a NBA game.
As a back story, i was casually talking to this girl a few months ago, but we lost contact after she kept getting sent to the looney bin every few weeks.
However, the game was a blast and then we went back to her place to smoke and drink more four lokos. We end up hooking up and I thought all is well.
Fast forward to tonight at 1am where I’m on a 2 hour train out of the city because I’m pretty sure i picked up scabies from her. I have no idea what to tell my employer. Unfortunately, she doesn’t have any symptoms yet (and probably won’t for a few weeks) so I’m looking forward to telling a girl who spent most of 2017 in mental hospitals that she has an STD.
Happy holidays to PGPers and apologies to mom for ruining Christmas.
And that, my friends, is why you don’t drink Four Lokos with girls who put out “crazy” vibes. You’ll probably get scabies. .