Unfinished Blogging:Lasingera Nights.
I am never drinking. Ever. Again.
Of course, I’ll say that now and forget about it. I shall play it safe and state this behind my computer screen as I skull copious amounts of green tea and grapefruit juice. Oh Hell Yes.
We all know that this is a safe statement, and something that will be instantly forgotten when the next weekend rolls in.
Hello, my name is Nathalie and I am an Alcoholic.
But that's beside the point, really.
Part One : Green Cards, Ho-Bags and a Sappy Movie
It’s not our fault that Truck drives like a 16-year-old white girl. No offense to anyone of course.
And like any decent girl, who could pass up the perfect opportunity to grab a cosmopolitan from Havana’s?
I personally love Havana’s despite the crowds that it draws. It has this exotic feel and an edge that really becomes a class of its own. The drinks are mixed well, and the music is superb. I could sit there all night downing pricy drinks and radiate from the live Latino beats from the other end of the room.
Sadly, Havana’s is also known to sift the decent from the skank at the doors, and draw in the cheap girls looking for green and dirty men (Generally White)…lusting for adolescent booty.
After copious amounts of cherries in an elegant shot glass, and giggling at the disastrous couples around us; Cecille happened to recognize a girl that she had trained before. I swear she didn’t miss a beat.
It was really quite unsightly. Little Miss Two Dolla Skank, draped on the arm of a 50-Something gentleman who looked divorced with 3 kids-the youngest would most likely the same age as the girl sashaying by his side and was border line on fitting the perfect profile of a pedophile.
If there was ever a time in Trucks life where he became productive, it was right about at this moment. Out of nowhere he appears with Jen in tow, and saves Cecille and I from our big mouths.
I mentioned a movie. Fuck the movie. Yes that damned movie: The Lake House.
For those of you who have not seen it and are:
a.) Single or;
b.) in a relationship where there is distance involved
DO NOT WATCH IT.
Picture this: Cecille pouting. Nat sulking. Jen ignoring Truck continuously whispering into her ear about how cute and fluffy everything is. Blarghhh!!
All right. So it pulled on the heartstrings a little. Or maybe I am just horribly bitter and strung on the emotions that will forever traumatize me from past and current relationships.
Cecille, I am now philosophically opposed to movies about love, letters, distance and time..next time ya wanna watch something sappy like that: Take Truck.
Part Two: “Me and my girls we stay fly and we love to stay high..”
(SNEAKERS+PARTYING=ALL NIGHT ROCKIN’)
If there were any lingering dampening emotions from the quick make-over fix in the bathroom, and the short drive to The Fort, they were quickly drowned with a few bottles of Red Horse at the club with Truck, Stella and Jen.
Not long after, Ciel and I found ourselves on our own, sticking it out on the floor, clinking bottles and having a blast. And apart from the creepy, balding fat dude that was hovering around us most of the time
(Who we thought was gay: He was humping and grinding some dude and they BOTH seemed to enjoy it)
and the usual "Ba-Bum-Ba-Bump-Bump" girls; there was nothing else that really stuck out.
Dizzy drunkenness discovered when I had my head half way down the toilet bowl minutes later.
I just felt disgusting.
And when Ciel and I decided to call it a night past 4AM I had no idea I was so drunk that I could barely walk.
Did I really drink that much?
Part Three: Drunk Dialing.
Walkin…rather, SWAYING back to the car in giggles took a great deal of effort. Peering through one eye and staggering with Cecille just seemed so damn funny at the time, and everyone else looked pretty stupid.
I vaguely recall Swift telling us to sober the hell up before driving, and that was the one and only thing I had in mind.
God I hate being designated driver.
Why me?
Every weekend?
I am the most irresponsible person to be designated driver.
Sad part is that I know the answer: When you are horrible girls like Cecille and I, no one wants to hang out with you. And between the two of us, I am the only one who still has a license and has NOT crashed a car…yet.
“Cecille, I cant drive like this. I need to sober up.”
“Yeahhh ayyt, chica”
“Cecille, I need to puke…” *Throws door open* “BLARGHHHHH!!!!”
“Aww Chica, you’ll be oka…” *Throws door open* “BLARGHHHHH!!!!”
When you have your head stuck out the door of your car, gagging and your head spinning; your poor, twisted mind drives you to do stupid things. Like drunk dialing.
Note: If anyone got a random call from me on Saturday/Sunday (16th/17th)…please disregard.
Sadly, when we had to come to terms with the fact that we were both completely unfit to drive. The fact that I was okay with Cecille driving says a lot about the state of mind that I was in at the time. Cecille managed to drive the car out of the parking lot, pay for the ticket AND have a lengthy conversation with the girl at the window, drive down the road, finally give up and then park.
After a long, detailed, and very slurred conversation, retching and a lecture from Daniel on the phone..we dialed a friend.
I am still not actually sure what is worse. The fact that I:
1. Am limited to a very tiny amount of people to call in these dire situations
2. The people whose numbers are on my phone, that WOULD help do not live in the same continent
3. Resulted in calling Kurt, who turned out to be the only person who actually answered his phone.
I am almost sure he regretted it, because we talked him into coming to get us.
And Truck, we hate you for not picking up.
Kurt found us, from what felt like after forever, slumped in our chairs barely able to talk. Before we knew it we were shuffling into his apartment and falling asleep on the sofa bed in the living room. Through random intervals I woke up to:
-Kurt bashing plates and shit around like if he was cooking or cleaning. How domesticated.
-Kurt taking a picture of us sleeping, and me swearing that I would kill him when I was sober enough
-Kurt passed out on the floor next to us on a bean bag with a teddy bear on his belly; and his Dad prodding him to wake up. How fucking embarrassing. Can you imagine being his dad, waking up and finding his exhausted son on the floor and two extremely wasted chicks on the bed? God. Kill me now.
At about 11, Ciel and I woke up to the rantings of Kurt and yet another endless lecture from one of our male buddies. I really couldn’t care less at the time. I was extremely hungover, still felt like throwing up all over myself and was desperate for some food.
Part Four: No Left Turn, No Patience, No Money
We managed to get back to Kurt’s car back at The Fort and left him there. Hunger took lead and we sped off to the nearest Mickey Dees and ordered a grip of food. I was rather proud of myself for holding off the temptation of projectile vomiting through the Pay window and all over the dense chick sitting there. The stench at McDonald’s was unbearable, and I was more than happy to make it in and out of there in less than ten minutes.
Cecille and I decided to park somewhere so that we could eat. And as if our luck could get any worse, we were pulled over by the coppers who were clearly hungry too.
They wanted to confiscate my license for making a left turn.
To tally it up I was: Severely hung-over, hungry and upset. I considered puking all over his perfect neon orange uniform, but quickly weighed out whether I wanted to go to a dirty jail cell or not and decided on the latter.
“Maam, ip you do not hab tine to go to de seminarrr and collec iyour license at the LTO) in hir in Makati durr is another way. You can pay de pine hurr wit me but you will hab no receipt.”
Translation: “Maam if you don’t have the time to go to the seminar and collect your licence at the LTO (Our version of DMV) here in the city of Makati you have the option of paying us out because we are cheap tacky bastards, its lunch time and we need lunch money.”
“Ah.How much is the ticket?”
“Eet ees pibe handred pesos.” “Its 500 bucks, wench.”
*teary eyed* “Sir I don’t have that kinda cash, I feel sick, I live far and all I wanna do is eat my food and go home.”
He carefully weighs out the scenario as he gazes over to our bag of stinky Mickey Dees, sitting squarely between Cecille and I among the other rubbish, coins and CDs on the floor of my car.
Cecille pouts and gives her best kawawa/puppy dog look: “Sir, we are seriously really broke and hungry and we just wanna go home.”
He sighs. I think we won. I was about to pull my tella novella “IAMCRYINGBECAUSEMYPERFECTBOYFRIENDWITHPERFECTBIGWHITETEETHCHEATEDONMEANDISNOWONHISDEADBEDBECAUSEHESGOTABRAINTUMOR” move.
“Por hay while.” “Hold up, need to talk to my partner. We are clearly not going to extract enough money off you guys as planned.”
Cecille and I quickly stash whatever money we have in a hard to find corner of our car. I have learned from experience, that if they wanna give you a hard time they WILL search the car.
He comes back, and hesitates.
“Hokay, ip you want I can gib you lesser ticket penalty. Por only not wurring islet-belt. Two-handred-pipty only. You hab dat?” “Ayyt bitches, I’ll cut it in half and supposedly fine you for not wearing your seat-belt.”
I end up exchanging my precious fucking license for two crumpled 100 peso notes and a deteriotating 50, that I ended up wedging between his notebook. That fucker. Imma get my own back one day.
Of course, I’ll say that now and forget about it. I shall play it safe and state this behind my computer screen as I skull copious amounts of green tea and grapefruit juice. Oh Hell Yes.
We all know that this is a safe statement, and something that will be instantly forgotten when the next weekend rolls in.
Hello, my name is Nathalie and I am an Alcoholic.
But that's beside the point, really.
Part One : Green Cards, Ho-Bags and a Sappy Movie
It’s not our fault that Truck drives like a 16-year-old white girl. No offense to anyone of course.
And like any decent girl, who could pass up the perfect opportunity to grab a cosmopolitan from Havana’s?
I personally love Havana’s despite the crowds that it draws. It has this exotic feel and an edge that really becomes a class of its own. The drinks are mixed well, and the music is superb. I could sit there all night downing pricy drinks and radiate from the live Latino beats from the other end of the room.
Sadly, Havana’s is also known to sift the decent from the skank at the doors, and draw in the cheap girls looking for green and dirty men (Generally White)…lusting for adolescent booty.
After copious amounts of cherries in an elegant shot glass, and giggling at the disastrous couples around us; Cecille happened to recognize a girl that she had trained before. I swear she didn’t miss a beat.
It was really quite unsightly. Little Miss Two Dolla Skank, draped on the arm of a 50-Something gentleman who looked divorced with 3 kids-the youngest would most likely the same age as the girl sashaying by his side and was border line on fitting the perfect profile of a pedophile.
If there was ever a time in Trucks life where he became productive, it was right about at this moment. Out of nowhere he appears with Jen in tow, and saves Cecille and I from our big mouths.
I mentioned a movie. Fuck the movie. Yes that damned movie: The Lake House.
For those of you who have not seen it and are:
a.) Single or;
b.) in a relationship where there is distance involved
DO NOT WATCH IT.
Picture this: Cecille pouting. Nat sulking. Jen ignoring Truck continuously whispering into her ear about how cute and fluffy everything is. Blarghhh!!
All right. So it pulled on the heartstrings a little. Or maybe I am just horribly bitter and strung on the emotions that will forever traumatize me from past and current relationships.
Cecille, I am now philosophically opposed to movies about love, letters, distance and time..next time ya wanna watch something sappy like that: Take Truck.
Part Two: “Me and my girls we stay fly and we love to stay high..”
(SNEAKERS+PARTYING=ALL NIGHT ROCKIN’)
If there were any lingering dampening emotions from the quick make-over fix in the bathroom, and the short drive to The Fort, they were quickly drowned with a few bottles of Red Horse at the club with Truck, Stella and Jen.
Not long after, Ciel and I found ourselves on our own, sticking it out on the floor, clinking bottles and having a blast. And apart from the creepy, balding fat dude that was hovering around us most of the time
(Who we thought was gay: He was humping and grinding some dude and they BOTH seemed to enjoy it)
and the usual "Ba-Bum-Ba-Bump-Bump" girls; there was nothing else that really stuck out.
Dizzy drunkenness discovered when I had my head half way down the toilet bowl minutes later.
I just felt disgusting.
And when Ciel and I decided to call it a night past 4AM I had no idea I was so drunk that I could barely walk.
Did I really drink that much?
Part Three: Drunk Dialing.
Walkin…rather, SWAYING back to the car in giggles took a great deal of effort. Peering through one eye and staggering with Cecille just seemed so damn funny at the time, and everyone else looked pretty stupid.
I vaguely recall Swift telling us to sober the hell up before driving, and that was the one and only thing I had in mind.
God I hate being designated driver.
Why me?
Every weekend?
I am the most irresponsible person to be designated driver.
Sad part is that I know the answer: When you are horrible girls like Cecille and I, no one wants to hang out with you. And between the two of us, I am the only one who still has a license and has NOT crashed a car…yet.
“Cecille, I cant drive like this. I need to sober up.”
“Yeahhh ayyt, chica”
“Cecille, I need to puke…” *Throws door open* “BLARGHHHHH!!!!”
“Aww Chica, you’ll be oka…” *Throws door open* “BLARGHHHHH!!!!”
When you have your head stuck out the door of your car, gagging and your head spinning; your poor, twisted mind drives you to do stupid things. Like drunk dialing.
Note: If anyone got a random call from me on Saturday/Sunday (16th/17th)…please disregard.
Sadly, when we had to come to terms with the fact that we were both completely unfit to drive. The fact that I was okay with Cecille driving says a lot about the state of mind that I was in at the time. Cecille managed to drive the car out of the parking lot, pay for the ticket AND have a lengthy conversation with the girl at the window, drive down the road, finally give up and then park.
After a long, detailed, and very slurred conversation, retching and a lecture from Daniel on the phone..we dialed a friend.
I am still not actually sure what is worse. The fact that I:
1. Am limited to a very tiny amount of people to call in these dire situations
2. The people whose numbers are on my phone, that WOULD help do not live in the same continent
3. Resulted in calling Kurt, who turned out to be the only person who actually answered his phone.
I am almost sure he regretted it, because we talked him into coming to get us.
And Truck, we hate you for not picking up.
Kurt found us, from what felt like after forever, slumped in our chairs barely able to talk. Before we knew it we were shuffling into his apartment and falling asleep on the sofa bed in the living room. Through random intervals I woke up to:
-Kurt bashing plates and shit around like if he was cooking or cleaning. How domesticated.
-Kurt taking a picture of us sleeping, and me swearing that I would kill him when I was sober enough
-Kurt passed out on the floor next to us on a bean bag with a teddy bear on his belly; and his Dad prodding him to wake up. How fucking embarrassing. Can you imagine being his dad, waking up and finding his exhausted son on the floor and two extremely wasted chicks on the bed? God. Kill me now.
At about 11, Ciel and I woke up to the rantings of Kurt and yet another endless lecture from one of our male buddies. I really couldn’t care less at the time. I was extremely hungover, still felt like throwing up all over myself and was desperate for some food.
Part Four: No Left Turn, No Patience, No Money
We managed to get back to Kurt’s car back at The Fort and left him there. Hunger took lead and we sped off to the nearest Mickey Dees and ordered a grip of food. I was rather proud of myself for holding off the temptation of projectile vomiting through the Pay window and all over the dense chick sitting there. The stench at McDonald’s was unbearable, and I was more than happy to make it in and out of there in less than ten minutes.
Cecille and I decided to park somewhere so that we could eat. And as if our luck could get any worse, we were pulled over by the coppers who were clearly hungry too.
They wanted to confiscate my license for making a left turn.
To tally it up I was: Severely hung-over, hungry and upset. I considered puking all over his perfect neon orange uniform, but quickly weighed out whether I wanted to go to a dirty jail cell or not and decided on the latter.
“Maam, ip you do not hab tine to go to de seminarrr and collec iyour license at the LTO) in hir in Makati durr is another way. You can pay de pine hurr wit me but you will hab no receipt.”
Translation: “Maam if you don’t have the time to go to the seminar and collect your licence at the LTO (Our version of DMV) here in the city of Makati you have the option of paying us out because we are cheap tacky bastards, its lunch time and we need lunch money.”
“Ah.How much is the ticket?”
“Eet ees pibe handred pesos.” “Its 500 bucks, wench.”
*teary eyed* “Sir I don’t have that kinda cash, I feel sick, I live far and all I wanna do is eat my food and go home.”
He carefully weighs out the scenario as he gazes over to our bag of stinky Mickey Dees, sitting squarely between Cecille and I among the other rubbish, coins and CDs on the floor of my car.
Cecille pouts and gives her best kawawa/puppy dog look: “Sir, we are seriously really broke and hungry and we just wanna go home.”
He sighs. I think we won. I was about to pull my tella novella “IAMCRYINGBECAUSEMYPERFECTBOYFRIENDWITHPERFECTBIGWHITETEETHCHEATEDONMEANDISNOWONHISDEADBEDBECAUSEHESGOTABRAINTUMOR” move.
“Por hay while.” “Hold up, need to talk to my partner. We are clearly not going to extract enough money off you guys as planned.”
Cecille and I quickly stash whatever money we have in a hard to find corner of our car. I have learned from experience, that if they wanna give you a hard time they WILL search the car.
He comes back, and hesitates.
“Hokay, ip you want I can gib you lesser ticket penalty. Por only not wurring islet-belt. Two-handred-pipty only. You hab dat?” “Ayyt bitches, I’ll cut it in half and supposedly fine you for not wearing your seat-belt.”
I end up exchanging my precious fucking license for two crumpled 100 peso notes and a deteriotating 50, that I ended up wedging between his notebook. That fucker. Imma get my own back one day.