Falling Out of Love With Everything
One of the most dangerous situations to be in is one in which you are supremely bored. If you go out to a bar and find yourself entertained with good conversation, you are less likely to drink life-threatening amounts of alcohol...as opposed to, say, if you were stuck at some dumb "get together" in a stank ass part of Brooklyn.
Jessica had finally taken her LSATs, so the grey cloud of tension and pressure burst...and it was raining BOOZE. She wanted to go see an old friend who was apartment sitting for some people in Williamsburg. I wanted to hit the bars, but it was her night so I went along with it.
As soon as we walk into this apartment, you are faced with one absolute truth: these people are loaded. And I mean loaded.
I felt like Martha Stewart would walk in and start licking the floor, writhing in a fit of passion. I don't have anything against rich people, but I really hate it when they obviously have so much money that they spend it on ridiculous things. For example, let's take a look at their bathroom:
A sterling silver tissue ring holder. Is that really neccessary? I mean REALLY. Why can't you just have a box of tissues like every other blue collar shmuck? Do you honestly think that this is going to somehow improve the tissues? Your cold won't go away any faster just because you had to pull out the tissue from underneath a piece of...toilet jewelry.
Oh, look at me, I'm in a high income bracket and I buy 24-hour moisturizer. Poor people only have 12 hour mousturizer.
How about this:
All in all I counted around 50 towels. 2 people live in this house, why would you need 50 fucking towels? They are just going to be sitting there, forever, folded and extra fluffy and unused. But hey, you're rich, and you want people to know it...nothing says "old money" like having 50 towels in variating shades of grey throughout your bathroom. And finally, as an extension of the excessive towel collection, there is:
the extensive shampoo collection. It's as if they said "You know what honey, we have 50 towels, so why don't we coordinate and buy 50 different kinds of shampoo? I mean, you can never have too much shampoo." Again, 2 people live here, so that's 25 different kinds of shampoo per person. You know what, I have a better idea for you people, why don't you just give ME the money? It's obviously a burden to you, and you don't know what to do with it, and judging from your love of terrycloth you are miserable people. So hand over the cash.
A photo of the wife as a child was hanging in the hallway. Here's a tip: if you were an ugly baby that looked like it was beaten with a tennis racket covered in acid, I wouldn't frame it for all to see.
I go out into the living room and realized I was having a lot more fun in the bathroom. But I continued to drink my face off while the boring people talked about boring things and acted like giant tools in general. Jessica had the same impulse.
Jessica's friend, Kat, came to meet us and began drinking heavily as well. So you've got 3 trouble makers in a crap social situation:
Some really unattractive guy who looked like he had an underground child porn dungeon started hitting on me. I really did not want him to talk to me, and I was too drunk to put up with it. So for some reason I started rambling on and on about the computer game Oregon Trail. We all know this game. I was BRAGGING about how at the beginning of the game the only thing I would buy at the general store was 500 lbs. of bacon, or as much bacon weight as my caravan could hold. I then would write log entries about how I beat my wife with the giant bag of bacon. Then I started saying people who waited for the ferry instead of just "fording the motherfucking river" were pussies and that I hoped their children drowned. I finished off with saying I would go hunting and kill way more buffalo than I could carry back and then put everyone on meager rations at a grueling pace, insisted my caravan was on the Atkin's Diet, and wrote "fuck you" on little Tommy's grave after he died of dysentary. So then the guy walked away. Jessica got a picture of me mid-rant:
I decided the only way things would start looking up is if we went to the bathroom. I vaguely remember having fun there earlier in the night. So the three of us went in. And staring us in the face was this:
Cue Ernie singing "Rubber Ducky, You're The One..."
"You make bathtime soo much fun.."
"Rubber Ducky I'm awfully fond of yoooooou"
When we go to the roof, there is some sort of strange wagon wheel. Almost as if the Gods knew I had been discussing Oregon Trail. We started messing with it:
I went to the other side of the roof to take an innocent picture of the bridge...
When ALL OF A SUDDEN a really creepy bald guy wearing running shorts and sneakers with no socks comes over and asks me: "What fucking apartment are you people from?"
Me: Um, excuse me?
Him: You heard me. You people have been making noise all night long and now you're on the roof doing something loud. What apartment are you from?
Me: (having absolutely no idea what apartment we are from) um...3...301..301b...
Him: 301? there is no 301. This is ridiculous, I'm calling the police. Are those your friends over there? Time for a little talk!
While he's yelling at them, I'm taking pictures of him and singing "MR. CLEAN MR. CLEAN" and then saying "oh my god, the glare, I can't take it!" He was pissed.
Ok, so one more trip to the bathroom and we decide it's time to leave.
<---back by popular demand
When nobody is looking I grab a bottle of wine from the fancy wine rack that is sitting by the door.
You know, because they want everyone to see that they have a wine rack the second they walk in. They should just replace the wine rack with a butler that slaps you in the face with a white silk glove when you walk in.
So we left.
Kat suggests we go back to my hood where there is a diner her sister works at. They are closing up, and they will let us sit there and smoke and drink our bottle of stolen wine. Jessica passes out in the cab and starts drooling on herself. But we lug her into the diner anyway.
When she comes to, I suggest that the only thing that can help us at this point is to drink more. So we open the bottle of wine, and sit there talking loudly about sex. The guy who is closing up is trying very hard to ignore us. I would put money on the theory that he hated us.
<---pretending not to listen in on two drunk sluts talking about sex
At this point Kat has dissapeared with her sister and left Jessica and I in the diner. We are so shithoused that I call my friend Mike (who you may remember from the "Cheese and Cracker Incident") to come help us...walk. And by walk I mean finish the wine for us. He does so, graciously.
While he is doing that I have befriended a tranvestite that walks past. I like to tell trannys that they are beautiful because nothing is more entertaining than a cross-dresser that is quite pleased with him/herself.
Jessica can't even stand up at this point and her eyes are rolling back into her head. So Mike and I have to literally carry her blocks and blocks to his apartment. We finally get to his doorway and she collapses. She will not move. She is lying down on the soaking wet sidewalk infront of Mike's doorway and we are threatening to call 911 if she doesn't get up and walk 4 more feet. I try to pick her up, fall, and bruised both of my knees to shit. I will not be giving blowjobs for a while. We get her to pass out on the couch while I vomit my brains out in the bathroom:
This is where it gets good. Jessica wakes me up at around 11 am, and I am still so fucking drunk. I would love to say that this is the first time Jessica has woken me up, when she's wearing no pants and looks really guilty.
She says she pissed all over herself in her sleep, and flipped the cushions over so that no one would know. This is like the 100th time that Jessica has pissesd herself in a drunken stupor. Many men have woken up in their own beds covered in her urine. She is so awesome. She knew exactly what to do, and she did it with calm. Her pants were soaked so she asked Mike if he had any pajama pants that she could wear home. He dug up the most hideous and ridiculous pair of pants.
They were like MC Hammer pants with basketballs all over them. She only had these fancy high heeled boots, so she had to wear these high heels with these freaking pants.
I could not stop laughing. She had to walk in public for 30 minutes like this. She looked absolutely ridiculous. She would SCREAM at anyone who looked at her funny...which was everyone. These 2 gigantic black men were walking towards us and laughing at her, and she screams "YO STOP GIVING ME THE STINK EYE! DON'T STINK EYE ME!" I begged her not to start a fight with 2 giant black men who have every right to laugh at her attire. We passed a mother and her little girl, the little girl started crying and Jessica goes "WHAT YOU DON'T LIKE MY PANTS?!"
You've got two girls walking through Brooklyn: one wearing basketball MC Hammer pants with high heels and one with green hair and her tits falling out of the shirt she obviously had been wearing the night before. Both of us looked like we were on the wrong end of a train wreck.
I call my dad, who probably thinks I was out whoring it up since I never came home, and told him I lost my keys. I bet he could smell the booze on me through the phone line. It's rough living at home when you come home like this:
I realized as I walked into the house and trudged upstairs, that the most fun I had all night involved a bathtoy:
Lucky for me, I have good friends, and Mike was cool with everything:
GaireCailin: thanks so much for letting me pass out and vomit there
GaireCailin: i really owe you
Sha*er*7: shut the fuck up...you can blow chunks at my place anytime
It's 10 p.m...do you know where your children are?
Copyright Jane Callahan 2006