Wasted
But not drunk-wasted, more like a wasted-Saturday.
I decided to follow my own advice and hit downtown on Saturday night; I called some friends and even though they weren't really sure about it, they said that it may end up being a fun night. So Saturday morning it all sounded good; perhaps too good to be true.
I had Chinese for lunch with some friends including my cool friend Jerry, that I like to call J, and who made me laugh like crazy. We all ate like truck drivers in the last all-you-can-eat-buffet for the next 7,000 miles, and me being of course the one still standing and refilling his plate when everybody was exhausted after conjugating the verb "to glut" for a couple hours. (I don't really know if that's a verb, but let's say it is: I glut, you glut, she gluts and so on).
From early in the morning I had a little headache that wasn't that bad until I came back home from the Chinese. It started to grow parallel to my trips to fill my plate and by the time I picked up the mail and walked into my condo, it had morphed into an awful headache. I took a couple pills of my "Tylenol from drunkards", which I believed is advertised as Ultra Strength or Arthritis something or whatever for the public and started reading my book. At around 7:30 PM the headache was anything but funny, a pain that I could feel right behind my eyebrows but that was different from that pain that I get in spring with all the sinus infection and shit that I get when all those beautiful flowers fart into the air pollen and all that stuff. A fucking pain in the ass but deep behind my eye brows.
At that time I decided to put my book away and lie on the coach with my eyes closed. Perhaps to take a little nap. Well, the phone woke me up at quarter after ten and it was one of my friends saying that they were going to see a movie at I don't know who's house, so that the dancing plan was in other words "postpone". The headache was still there but not as bad as before, maybe because by that time I was hungry again and my refrigerator was as empty as a robed safe box.
I headed for the supermarket to get something to eat and in my way to the cash register picked up a six-pack of Becks. I hate beer in a can, it takes like shit to me. Beer in an ice cold bottle, ahhhhh that's a whole different story my friends. When I scanned the beer in the self check out, it didn't ask me to show my driver's license as a proof of age, so I thought that the cashier had bypassed me in advance, knowing that I definitely don't look like a 16-year old dude. A little detail that was going to cost me dear half an hour later.
Got back to my condo, put the beers in the freezer and threw a piece of chicken breast in my own mix of butter and basil flavored olive oil. Meanwhile I ironed my shirt, shaved and checked my gmail account where I get the VIP e-mails. After that I ate real quick and proceed to move from the freezer to the refrigerator my ice cold Becks. Saw that the bottles were a bit frosty and said to myself "Yeaaaaahh, time to warm up engines tiger!".
Half a second after I've opened the bottle I saw an unusual blue ribbon on the etiquette as oppose to the traditional red that I didn't quite understood. . . but that if I've payed more attention when the self check out in the super market didn't ask for my ID, it would've rang a hundred bells inside my head.
The blue ribbon meant: Non-Alcoholic.
Fuck! Non-alcoholic means sans alcohol; means no warming up of engines; means a beer that tastes like a juice, like a beer with three bags of fucking Splenda in it. And what's the whole point in drinking a beer that has no alcohol, I mean seriously, what's the whole fucking point?! You don't want alcohol? then go and get a fucking apple juice bitch!
At that time the headache hit me again and it was already twenty after eleven, so if I'd taken a quick shower and drove immediately to the club, after parking and shit I would've been asking for my first RedBull Vodka right at midnight. A good time to be around the dance floor but not in the shitty mood I was at that point and not without a single drop of alcohol in my system. I don't have any good looks or this tremendous personality so it always takes a lot of talking and smiling and dancing and drinking to break the ice and shit, so if I'm not feeling like a champion, what's the whole point? Besides going alone to a club is just fucking pathetic to put it in pretty decent damn words.
So no alcohol, no e-mails in my gmail account, no dancing, no love, not even a movie with my friends, no nothing. Oh, actually just one thing: a fucking headache in a wasted Saturday night.
Sad shit, I know.
I decided to follow my own advice and hit downtown on Saturday night; I called some friends and even though they weren't really sure about it, they said that it may end up being a fun night. So Saturday morning it all sounded good; perhaps too good to be true.
I had Chinese for lunch with some friends including my cool friend Jerry, that I like to call J, and who made me laugh like crazy. We all ate like truck drivers in the last all-you-can-eat-buffet for the next 7,000 miles, and me being of course the one still standing and refilling his plate when everybody was exhausted after conjugating the verb "to glut" for a couple hours. (I don't really know if that's a verb, but let's say it is: I glut, you glut, she gluts and so on).
From early in the morning I had a little headache that wasn't that bad until I came back home from the Chinese. It started to grow parallel to my trips to fill my plate and by the time I picked up the mail and walked into my condo, it had morphed into an awful headache. I took a couple pills of my "Tylenol from drunkards", which I believed is advertised as Ultra Strength or Arthritis something or whatever for the public and started reading my book. At around 7:30 PM the headache was anything but funny, a pain that I could feel right behind my eyebrows but that was different from that pain that I get in spring with all the sinus infection and shit that I get when all those beautiful flowers fart into the air pollen and all that stuff. A fucking pain in the ass but deep behind my eye brows.
At that time I decided to put my book away and lie on the coach with my eyes closed. Perhaps to take a little nap. Well, the phone woke me up at quarter after ten and it was one of my friends saying that they were going to see a movie at I don't know who's house, so that the dancing plan was in other words "postpone". The headache was still there but not as bad as before, maybe because by that time I was hungry again and my refrigerator was as empty as a robed safe box.
I headed for the supermarket to get something to eat and in my way to the cash register picked up a six-pack of Becks. I hate beer in a can, it takes like shit to me. Beer in an ice cold bottle, ahhhhh that's a whole different story my friends. When I scanned the beer in the self check out, it didn't ask me to show my driver's license as a proof of age, so I thought that the cashier had bypassed me in advance, knowing that I definitely don't look like a 16-year old dude. A little detail that was going to cost me dear half an hour later.
Got back to my condo, put the beers in the freezer and threw a piece of chicken breast in my own mix of butter and basil flavored olive oil. Meanwhile I ironed my shirt, shaved and checked my gmail account where I get the VIP e-mails. After that I ate real quick and proceed to move from the freezer to the refrigerator my ice cold Becks. Saw that the bottles were a bit frosty and said to myself "Yeaaaaahh, time to warm up engines tiger!".
Half a second after I've opened the bottle I saw an unusual blue ribbon on the etiquette as oppose to the traditional red that I didn't quite understood. . . but that if I've payed more attention when the self check out in the super market didn't ask for my ID, it would've rang a hundred bells inside my head.
The blue ribbon meant: Non-Alcoholic.
Fuck! Non-alcoholic means sans alcohol; means no warming up of engines; means a beer that tastes like a juice, like a beer with three bags of fucking Splenda in it. And what's the whole point in drinking a beer that has no alcohol, I mean seriously, what's the whole fucking point?! You don't want alcohol? then go and get a fucking apple juice bitch!
At that time the headache hit me again and it was already twenty after eleven, so if I'd taken a quick shower and drove immediately to the club, after parking and shit I would've been asking for my first RedBull Vodka right at midnight. A good time to be around the dance floor but not in the shitty mood I was at that point and not without a single drop of alcohol in my system. I don't have any good looks or this tremendous personality so it always takes a lot of talking and smiling and dancing and drinking to break the ice and shit, so if I'm not feeling like a champion, what's the whole point? Besides going alone to a club is just fucking pathetic to put it in pretty decent damn words.
So no alcohol, no e-mails in my gmail account, no dancing, no love, not even a movie with my friends, no nothing. Oh, actually just one thing: a fucking headache in a wasted Saturday night.
Sad shit, I know.
Jean-Francois was drunk at 7:31 PM
2 Comments:
my saturday night was surprizingly similar to yours. without the plans and without any rational disappointments. i did take a bubble bath - that was nice. but yeah, by the time my friends were ready to go out i was too tired and in a bad mood. but i got to sleep alot, so my saturday wasn't entirely wasted.
That bubble bath sounds niiiiiice...
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