Four Nights of Drinking or Why I'm Broke Again or My Life is Arbitrary and Wonderful
As I may have said before, one of my favorite things about living in Scotland is the fact that I no longer feel like I'm constantly waiting. I no longer have to count the days until Friday, the hours until the end of school, the minutes until the end of German class; I no longer have to scream for the day to come when I will finally go to Germany/leave for Canada/go to New York/pseudo-expatriate to Scotland. I may not be living a supremely intellectual or unique life, but I'm happy with that for now. I'm finally exactly where I want to be at the time during which I feel I need to be there, and it is FABULOUS and I want remember that. So, right now, I'm going to do the boring thing, the self-indulgent thing (and the thing I promised myself I'd try never again to do, after having read my archives, which are more or less cringe-worthy daily summaries of a time in my life I'd rather not remember in such detail) and, I'm going to write a horrifically long post about the delight of my weekend, and that will be that.
When I realized that it was St. Patrick's day, and that I was in Scotland, a short ferry ride away from Ireland (albeit a ferry from the other side of the country), my first inclination was to go, even if it required hitchhiking. But, after my friends insisted that this "small river" I kept talking about was not so much a small river as the Irish sea, that even Northern Ireland was south of where we were, and that no, hitchhiking was not such a great idea, I conceded that a last-minute pilgrimage to Ireland was not the best plan I had ever devised. So, Charlotte and I decided that, after the delight that was drinking in the afternoon last Sunday (because hey! what could be better than being drunk at a time when wearing sunglasses is actually appropriate?) that we should have an all-day-long pub crawl in celebration of the Irish heritage neither of us has. So, we went to no less than 10 dodgy pubs/bars/clubs, getting progressively drunker as we walked down the Royal Mile and back up the Cowgate. This is what we now know as the "Twelve Hours of Drinking," a feat of which (in my opinion) we are not unreasonably proud. There were some low points, like the forty-five minutes during which we desperately walked in frozen circles trying to find a cash machine with money in it, but the drunken energy in the city was spectacular; even the shady bars were full by 9:00, and everyone was outside, wearing hats, stumbling around, and I was right in the middle of it, of all the dreams I've had for years about actually being out in the world, doing things, even if those things are as banal and insignificant as drinking on St. Patrick's Day.
Saturday, I had another delightful, if uneventful evening of drinking during which I was, apparently giving off "Hey, I'm so desperate for sex that I've lowered my standards, so please come hit on me! (especially, if you're shorter than I am, look like you're 40, and are wearing a paw-print emblazoned fleece tied around your waist)" vibes.
Sunday, I didn't mean to go out. At first, I just amused myself by trying to fit Steph into confined spaces, like my suitcase. (And it worked!)
And, for those of you wondering as to whether or not (1) I'm actually a demented five-year-old, and (2) if I fit into my new kitchen cabinets, the answer to both queries is a resounding YES!
But, I mean we only have so many confined spaces in our flat, and it pretty much grew old after an hour anyway, so we had to do SOMETHING, and really, the only thing to do after 11:00 in Scotland is drink. So, we all went to the pub. The trouble is that in the block between our local and our flat, there's a club, and sometimes, we just end up there. And, Sunday night, as we left Rush Bar, we knew that we'd probably end up in Faith, except that we had no money. But, as fate would have it, the PR girl outside Faith handed us a card that advertised free entry and £1.50 drinks, and we did have £15 between us, and £15 = 10 shots of Sambuca, and we were already tipsy, so long story short, we ended up in Faith at one of the most ridiculous clubbing phenomenons ever devised: A Foam Party. Because, really everything is funny to drunk people, ESPECIALLY being doused in bubbles in public, while dancing. Except that, the foam was rather annoying in that it kept getting in my eyes and my lungs, as it re-curled my hair. Annoying or not though, it was worth it for this photo in which I am torn between delight and physical pain as I am crushed by foam:
This night also included an encounter with a (possibly?) hot Brazilian guy who saved me from a definitely minging 30-year-old with a boner because hey! foam is exciting? The hilarity and randomness of it all was overwhelming, and Steph and I spent a good 30 minutes when we got back just laughing hysterically, not smelling of smoke for once, because we were covered in foam.
Already so long, and yet there is more. Monday, I of course, had to go out AGAIN because I hadn't had quite enough to drink to officially qualify me as an alcoholic on the preceding three nights. So, I had to drink a whole bottle of Champagne, some black sambuca, and gin. Apparently (and I say "apparently" (1) because it makes everything funnier and (2) because I have no recollection of this incident whatsoever) this combination made me so drunk that, not only was I incapable of standing, I was incapable of sitting as well. For, my dearest flat mate, Charlotte informs me that I spent the whole of the cab ride home rolling around on the floor of the cab because, well, I thought that was a better place to be. I also, apparently, fell out of the cab in front of our flat and spent a good amount of time just lying in the street, preventing the cab from moving; not my finest moment. It is at this point, however, that I estimate I sustained my INJURY. Now, by "injury" I mean small cut on the side of my left palm, but I think the sheer amount of blood that gushed out of it and onto everything within my reach gives it "injury" status. Because, the blood was EVERYWHERE. I found it on the wall in the hallway the next day, on several door handles, on the outside of Steph's door, the outside of my door, my cupboard in the kitchen, the walls in the living area, and on the crumpets all over the floor with which Charlotte and I had had a fight. Why were we fighting with crumpets you ask? Because I was convinced, actually literally CONVINCED that she had killed Steph. I was so drunk that I actually believed that one of my flat mates had murdered the other one, and I was angry about it. But, what makes this whole horrible, drunken mess of an evening even better is that there were sober witnesses: two of them -- our random neighbours whom we've only ever met once, who we found in the hallway on our way into the flat because their power had gone out. And, what I want to know is why one of these two sober people didn't say to me, the crazy drunk girl who repeatedly reminded them (through her own demented logic) that it was okay that she was bleeding all over everything because NO! she didn't have AIDS, "Hey! You! Crazy bleeding American -- (1) You're flat mate's not dead, you idiot, and (2) please, for the love of god, put on a motherfucking Band-Aid." Well, as people of Scotland, they would have used the word "plaster," but we all get the point. The only thing from the whole night that even makes the least bit of sense was the bit in which I've been told I kept insisting that I was like Jesus "because I'm bleeding and I'm great." That at least is some drunken logic that my sober self can get behind.
I haven't had a drink since Monday night's bloody fiasco, and I've been strategically avoiding neighbors. Today, Steph and I went on a two-hour-long trek around the city in search of someone who would serve us pancakes and/or waffles in the afternoon; we were unsuccessful, and we eventually had to settle for pizza because some of us were wearing flip-flops and felt as if they were going to freeze and/or starve to death. While on our adventure, right before we copped out and admitted defeat, as possible karmic retribution for being a cold-hearted bitch, some guy in a wheel chair who looked as if he hadn't been near soap since 2004 called out "Oi!" and then SLAPPED me as he was wheeled past. It was as if his chair were really a throne and I should have been looking behind me to make sure the King of Grease had ample room to pass me by on the sidewalk so that he could be rushed to a motherfucking shower.
Tonight, we had a black out at about 11:00 AGAIN. So, we went to the only place besides a bar either of us could imagine would be open, ASDA (a.k.a. British Wal-Mart) and we bought ourselves muffins and flashlights ("torches") and pirate outfits. It was, as has been the rest of this weekend, utterly hilarious.
When I realized that it was St. Patrick's day, and that I was in Scotland, a short ferry ride away from Ireland (albeit a ferry from the other side of the country), my first inclination was to go, even if it required hitchhiking. But, after my friends insisted that this "small river" I kept talking about was not so much a small river as the Irish sea, that even Northern Ireland was south of where we were, and that no, hitchhiking was not such a great idea, I conceded that a last-minute pilgrimage to Ireland was not the best plan I had ever devised. So, Charlotte and I decided that, after the delight that was drinking in the afternoon last Sunday (because hey! what could be better than being drunk at a time when wearing sunglasses is actually appropriate?) that we should have an all-day-long pub crawl in celebration of the Irish heritage neither of us has. So, we went to no less than 10 dodgy pubs/bars/clubs, getting progressively drunker as we walked down the Royal Mile and back up the Cowgate. This is what we now know as the "Twelve Hours of Drinking," a feat of which (in my opinion) we are not unreasonably proud. There were some low points, like the forty-five minutes during which we desperately walked in frozen circles trying to find a cash machine with money in it, but the drunken energy in the city was spectacular; even the shady bars were full by 9:00, and everyone was outside, wearing hats, stumbling around, and I was right in the middle of it, of all the dreams I've had for years about actually being out in the world, doing things, even if those things are as banal and insignificant as drinking on St. Patrick's Day.
Saturday, I had another delightful, if uneventful evening of drinking during which I was, apparently giving off "Hey, I'm so desperate for sex that I've lowered my standards, so please come hit on me! (especially, if you're shorter than I am, look like you're 40, and are wearing a paw-print emblazoned fleece tied around your waist)" vibes.
Sunday, I didn't mean to go out. At first, I just amused myself by trying to fit Steph into confined spaces, like my suitcase. (And it worked!)
And, for those of you wondering as to whether or not (1) I'm actually a demented five-year-old, and (2) if I fit into my new kitchen cabinets, the answer to both queries is a resounding YES!
But, I mean we only have so many confined spaces in our flat, and it pretty much grew old after an hour anyway, so we had to do SOMETHING, and really, the only thing to do after 11:00 in Scotland is drink. So, we all went to the pub. The trouble is that in the block between our local and our flat, there's a club, and sometimes, we just end up there. And, Sunday night, as we left Rush Bar, we knew that we'd probably end up in Faith, except that we had no money. But, as fate would have it, the PR girl outside Faith handed us a card that advertised free entry and £1.50 drinks, and we did have £15 between us, and £15 = 10 shots of Sambuca, and we were already tipsy, so long story short, we ended up in Faith at one of the most ridiculous clubbing phenomenons ever devised: A Foam Party. Because, really everything is funny to drunk people, ESPECIALLY being doused in bubbles in public, while dancing. Except that, the foam was rather annoying in that it kept getting in my eyes and my lungs, as it re-curled my hair. Annoying or not though, it was worth it for this photo in which I am torn between delight and physical pain as I am crushed by foam:
This night also included an encounter with a (possibly?) hot Brazilian guy who saved me from a definitely minging 30-year-old with a boner because hey! foam is exciting? The hilarity and randomness of it all was overwhelming, and Steph and I spent a good 30 minutes when we got back just laughing hysterically, not smelling of smoke for once, because we were covered in foam.
Already so long, and yet there is more. Monday, I of course, had to go out AGAIN because I hadn't had quite enough to drink to officially qualify me as an alcoholic on the preceding three nights. So, I had to drink a whole bottle of Champagne, some black sambuca, and gin. Apparently (and I say "apparently" (1) because it makes everything funnier and (2) because I have no recollection of this incident whatsoever) this combination made me so drunk that, not only was I incapable of standing, I was incapable of sitting as well. For, my dearest flat mate, Charlotte informs me that I spent the whole of the cab ride home rolling around on the floor of the cab because, well, I thought that was a better place to be. I also, apparently, fell out of the cab in front of our flat and spent a good amount of time just lying in the street, preventing the cab from moving; not my finest moment. It is at this point, however, that I estimate I sustained my INJURY. Now, by "injury" I mean small cut on the side of my left palm, but I think the sheer amount of blood that gushed out of it and onto everything within my reach gives it "injury" status. Because, the blood was EVERYWHERE. I found it on the wall in the hallway the next day, on several door handles, on the outside of Steph's door, the outside of my door, my cupboard in the kitchen, the walls in the living area, and on the crumpets all over the floor with which Charlotte and I had had a fight. Why were we fighting with crumpets you ask? Because I was convinced, actually literally CONVINCED that she had killed Steph. I was so drunk that I actually believed that one of my flat mates had murdered the other one, and I was angry about it. But, what makes this whole horrible, drunken mess of an evening even better is that there were sober witnesses: two of them -- our random neighbours whom we've only ever met once, who we found in the hallway on our way into the flat because their power had gone out. And, what I want to know is why one of these two sober people didn't say to me, the crazy drunk girl who repeatedly reminded them (through her own demented logic) that it was okay that she was bleeding all over everything because NO! she didn't have AIDS, "Hey! You! Crazy bleeding American -- (1) You're flat mate's not dead, you idiot, and (2) please, for the love of god, put on a motherfucking Band-Aid." Well, as people of Scotland, they would have used the word "plaster," but we all get the point. The only thing from the whole night that even makes the least bit of sense was the bit in which I've been told I kept insisting that I was like Jesus "because I'm bleeding and I'm great." That at least is some drunken logic that my sober self can get behind.
I haven't had a drink since Monday night's bloody fiasco, and I've been strategically avoiding neighbors. Today, Steph and I went on a two-hour-long trek around the city in search of someone who would serve us pancakes and/or waffles in the afternoon; we were unsuccessful, and we eventually had to settle for pizza because some of us were wearing flip-flops and felt as if they were going to freeze and/or starve to death. While on our adventure, right before we copped out and admitted defeat, as possible karmic retribution for being a cold-hearted bitch, some guy in a wheel chair who looked as if he hadn't been near soap since 2004 called out "Oi!" and then SLAPPED me as he was wheeled past. It was as if his chair were really a throne and I should have been looking behind me to make sure the King of Grease had ample room to pass me by on the sidewalk so that he could be rushed to a motherfucking shower.
Tonight, we had a black out at about 11:00 AGAIN. So, we went to the only place besides a bar either of us could imagine would be open, ASDA (a.k.a. British Wal-Mart) and we bought ourselves muffins and flashlights ("torches") and pirate outfits. It was, as has been the rest of this weekend, utterly hilarious.