Last Tuesday night I got really drunk. Like, pledging drunk. I woke up (still drunk) at 9:30am on a dingy sofa in the basement of some dark, dank house, surrounded by two huge dirty ass fish tanks…with no idea who's house I was in or any recollection of events leading up to said house. No one else was downstairs, and for a moment I felt like I was in some Trainspotting DVD promo. Fortunately, I've had these fleeting crackhead feelings before, so it wasn't immediately alarming, just mildly intriguing.
I sat up, looked around, and concluded it was time to go upstairs and assess the situation. The house was big, and obviously inhabited by more than a few people, judging by the mess everywhere and the occupied room in another corner downstairs.
Upstairs I found two other guys sleeping on the living room couches. Both about sophomore-in-college age. One of them was curled up on the long couch under some covers like it was literally his bed. Then the other guy heard me getting water and awoke in startled confusion. He sat straight up, with a look like he wasn't sure whether I had just broken in or slept with his girlfriend and said (in one of the most awkward moments of hungover introduction ever), “Hey…….WHAT??”
“Yeah, I don't live here,” I replied.
“Yeah….I KNOW,” he said, followed by an eye roll that arced up to ceiling and back over a period of about 10 seconds.
Then he fell back onto the couch and passed out again. Only because kicking me out of the kitchen table appeared to require energy.
Then, as if on queue like a sitcom, a girl came out from down the hall (where there were about 4 more bedrooms) looking heavily cracked out. I began to think I may have passed out in a meth lab. And still, no recognition of any of these people.
“Hi, do you want some coffee?” she said as she loaded up the first pot of black crack.
“Umm, no thanks,” I said as I continued to read the latest edition of the Emory Wheel I had snagged from the nearest bathroom/mold museum. Apparently, in an effort to encourage school spirit despite a football team, Emory's SGA president “dissolved” the SGA and created a Department of War which declared “war” on Washington University in St. Louis (our Division III “rival”). I never knew Emory was capable of such high comedy.
She asked me if I wanted to go out for a cigarette and I said no.
Five minutes later I wandered outside to find her sitting comfortably on one of three ratty 1970's couches arranged in a semi-circle in the carport. We had a nice chat about the joys of waitressing and writing 10-page papers while I stared at her boobs through her white morning t-shirt and contemplated the effects of 20 beers on my liver.
Finally, I asked her where I was, and I figured out one of my old “frat bros” had let me crash at his place. He was still asleep.
I went back in and sat at the kitchen table, listening to the two couch-bums argue whether a black Moto RAZR would get you laid or just get you a blowjob, while I waited for my friend to wake up. Apparently black RAZRs only get you a blowjob these days. And to think, I didn't even HAVE a cell phone until I was a sophomore in college. I guess it just goes to show: BJs are harder to come by these days.
Later in the day I called the guy I was supposed to play a tennis match against and said I had a meeting in order to push the match back an hour to 8pm. Now that's a first: fabricating corporate culture to dodge real life activities. I promptly passed out until 7:45, then lost the first set 1-6 while I sweated out pure alcohol.
Yeah, I'm pretty sure my liver and I won't get along later in life.