Woke up more hung over than I have been for… probably two or three weeks. Impressive hangover, though.
Woke up and lurched to the sink where I filled a glass with water and dropped two solpadeines in. Downed what I think Bernard in Black Books calls “Fizzygood… you know, fizzygoodmakefeelnice” and waited for it all to go away, all the jangling and sharpness, and settle into a hum I could sleep through.
Came home in an embarassing taxi at 5 ish.
Taxi driver… I couldn’t tell if he was attractive or not, he had a wild, older man thing going on. He was an older man, that is why… he looked kind of something like Kevin Bacon but if Kevin Bacon didn’t make your skin crawl. I watched him in his little mirror as he spoke to me. I raved at him about my night.
I was awful. I told him if he saw some knackers wearing a princess tiara that was made for a five year old, to plough through them in his taxi, like a shopping channel knife through a tin can.
What? Why? THEY STOLE IT WHEN I FELL DOWN! I didn’t fall, it was Lucien, Lucien fell down cause he was drunk but I was carrying him so I fell too, you know, and the princess tiara fell off my head, it wasn’t my birthday no it was my friend Franco’s leaving do, but he wouldn’t wear the crown he just work the necklace so I wore the crown but those fucking knackers took my crown ugly bitch with her fake hair, if you see them you should drive through them, just ride up on the footpath and put your foot down they are vermin they don’t deserve to live! Imagine doing that to someone. STEALING THEIR CROWN WHILE THEY WRITHE ON THE STREET! I didn’t even fall, it was Lucien, Lucien fell! He was SO drunk, you should have seen him. I think he fell asleep actually. Yeah I did have a good night but like, it was messy. I hurt my hand, look! Oh there’s no bruise yet, no, but I can tell it’s going to be an ugly mother in the morning. Oh sure, it is the morning now… Huh! Well, it hurts so bad, and yeah those knackers! I was going to mace them but the guys held me back because one of them had crazy eyes and the guys nearly fought him for my crown and I was like no, no don’t, not for a plastic crown, for fucks sake, but then I tried to go after the bitch who had it on her ugly plastic head. She actually was pretty hot but what a cunt, wearing someone else’s crown. Thieving bitch, kicking me when I was down like that. BITCH. Kill that cunt.
The taxi driver listened to me ranting like that for 10 euros of journey and then said “do you feel better after your rant?” And I said yes but felt worse then because I realised I had been ranting drunkenly at him for 10 euros on the meter and that’s quite a lot of vitriol to spew at a taxi driver who’s just about to finish his shift and go home after working all night.
So I was ashamed then but was unable to stop going on about my stupid plastic crown that I didn’t even notice was missing from my head until someone told me the girl walking ahead was wearing it.
That wasn’t my only moment of aggressively fingering the pepper spray in my pocket.
Earlier we had left one bar in tatters and I began to want to go home with one of the French guys even though he was short and I was wearing heels. While we waited for everyone to gather in one place before we decided where to crawl to next, there was this weird guy who almost leapt on top of the lovely Estonian girl from work.
She had her back to him and he lunged up at her and I sort of stepped between them and I was tall in my heels and I felt like I was menacing. It was crazy, he looked like he was about to attack her from behind. I yelled at him get the fuck away you crazy motherfucker, and the bouncers outside the pub gave lazy gestures of intimidation and the guy stepped back but began circling the group and screaming. The bouncers eyed him, bored, more interested in protecting the entrance of the bar from people who might want to get in, than protecting the ex-customers from freaks.
I whipped out my pepper spray and began inching towards the freak whenever he moved back towards my colleague. Who the fuck knows why he had taken a dislike to her but I was going to be her champion and protect the petite, short women who can’t protect themselves. I really don’t like this Zorro act when it comes out in me. I’m usually such a pussy, terrified of being raped or murdered, terrified of teenagers who might try to knife me because they are from underprivileged areas. I avoid confrontation at all costs and then even when I’m sober and there is ACTUALLY a danger, I become the defender of rights, the protector of women, the recuperator of stolen goods. Like that time I had my bag of stuff stolen from me and I chased the thief through a warren of dark alleys, risking my safety for the sake of three admittedly really lovely dresses and a pair of amazing leather heels.
I don’t want to be the sort of idiot who winds up stabbed because I can’t just let things go, but that’s me, I’m a fucking idiot. I wish I could even say “I’m just a brave, no-nonsense person” but I don’t think I am because the idea of doing anything dangerous or being in a fight terrifies me, I guess my indignance and righteousness and great, furious anger are stronger than my desire to protect my vital organs.
Fucking stupid. A friend of mine, his father was murdered because he didn’t want to let people get away with being bullies. All he did was stand up for himself to a bunch of kids and he died in his son’s arms.
My mother’s friend was shot in South America because his girlfriend used to get into fights with other women, and he tried to break up one row and he was killed I think by the other woman’s boyfriend.
I don’t know what makes me put myself in stupid situations, I mean so far I haven’t really done anything too crazy but I just see this behaviour in myself sometimes and think, shit, I am going to get in trouble some day.
I blocked the weird guy from coming near my friends by staring at him angrily and standing in an offensive posture. OR that’s what I thought I was doing anyway, I was pretty drunk and wearing a princess tiara and stumbling around on a pair of stilettos. Oh Lordi, my feet hurt today. Everything hurts. My friends kept saying “Abby just leave that guy, it’s fine, leave it, the bouncers won’t let him do anything weird” and I was like “the bouncers don’t give two shits, and he is fucking crazy, I would rather freak out over nothing than turn my back on a certifiable maniac. Like seriously, just because no one ever actually does stab you doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. How do you think people get stabbed or shot or even headbutted? It starts with a crazy person and I’m sure some of those times can be avoided if you are wary.”
That’s what I thought anyway, I probably just foamed at the mouth and yelled “I fuckin mace the bastard, he look weird, hes fucking crazy Ima blind the cunt”
Soon two police officers walked past because I guess they were just doing the rounds and the weird guy scuttled off somewhere. We walked past him a few minutes later and he was banging his fist violently into a bus stop that had a big hard metal thing for the timetable attached to it. He repeatedly whacked his forehead into the metal case with the timetable in it.
I felt like I couldn’t understand how no one else turned a blind eye. Was I just monstrously overreacting? Is this sort of thing ok? I just can’t help myself, my instinct is to think there ARE people who kill and rape and they ARE out there on the streets with us, they mingle with us and we could be rape victims or murder victims just as easily as the weirdo banging his head could be the aggressor. Err on the side of caution, I say, and then I go following knackers around trying to get an excuse to use my mace and “see if it’s any good” just because they took my plastic tiara.
Anyway whatever, I didn’t get stabbed or anything so that’s cool.
OH MY FUCKBALLS a child in the building somewhere is running around and laughing hysterically. I feel like my ears are being penetrated with knitting needles.
GET OUT OF MY BRAIN AWFUL NOISE.
It is SATURDAY it is a grown ups day not a day for kids to run around enjoying their lack of responsibilities and the fact that washing up, for them, is still something extra to do that will get them thanks. Oh those were the days, when I could sit on my ass all summer and watch tv and then maybe climb a tree and then at some point in the endless stretch of freedom, I would decide to wash a few plates and my mother would gush over how great a person I was and how amazingly thoughtful that was and my stepdad would say something sarcastic about how he didn’t know I knew where the sink was or someting.
My mother ruined me, she really appreciated the barely anything I ever did, now it all just feels like shit because I have to do all the cleaning and no one thanks me for it.
My mum used to even clean up my vomit from my early hangovers.
Now I have to…
Oh god memory! Memory! Last night I was smoking… so many cigarettes… ugh… and I finished one cigarette and felt the bile rise and we were going back inside the second club, and it was me and one friend from work… WHO IS LETTING THAT LITTLE SHIT RUN AROUND THE HALL OF MY HOUSE, FUCK OFF I NEED SILENCE! Anyway it hit me, the most absolute and pure of all possible self-knowledge…
I would be sick and I would be sick very, very soon.
The entrance was through two doors. There was a tiny, tiny ante-room. So far there had been constant traffic through both so both doors remained half open with people passing each other and holding the doors for the next one… but in this one perfect moment, my friend pushed ahead of me, through the first, through the second door. The little room was briefly, oh so briefly empty and it was just me and I puked wine and wine and wine and ashes into one corner and as I retracted my outstretched neck the first door banged open behind me and I rushed forward to rejoin my friends. No one saw, no one knew. Ninja vomit.
The most perfect conditions I could have hoped for, and flawlessly executed to boot.
If you could see me right now I would do the Italian hand gesture, like a kiss to my fingertips, indicating great beauty or deliciousness.
My vomit was neither beautiful nor delicious but you get the point I’m sure.
After the first place our large group of work buddies disbanded. I insisted we ditch the hot girl my friend Franco liked but shouldn’t sleep with because he was fucking her friend semi-regularly, not because I wanted to cockblock him but because the hot girl is best friends with the BITCH MONKEY FROM HELL, the office skankypants who is rumoured to have a vibrator in her desk. She’s a nasty, nasty Nigerian girl who claims to hate black men and who once pounced on the weird but harmless Armenian and yelled “you’re a virgin aren’t you, you’ve never had sex, of course you haven’t had you ?” I mean yeah obviously he’s a virgin, look at him… but that was just mean humiliating him like that. Poor creepy little man…
She’s a cunt. So we left those girls and Franco sulked for a little bit but not long and the he began trying to convince me to have sex with him just as friends. I gave one of my best arguments against this plan…
“I can’t sleep with you because I am too good in bed. You would fall in love with me.”
This is not a good thing to tell a man so he will stop wanting to sleep with you.. But I tell you, I honestly believed that to be true when I said it. I shook my head at him as he wheedled ah come on… just as friends like, it won’t be weird after, I promise!
I shook my head and told him “in the words of Uncle Ben from Spiderman, with great power comes great responsibility…”
I truly meant it. I must wield my body with care, one slip of the nip and I could sink a fella’s ship.
I’m really very very good in the sack. Ever since I began to feel good about myself, there has been no stopping me. If you want to know my secrets to sexual healing, it is something like this:
1. Feel incredibly good about yourself to the point where you should never, ever, ever be allowed in charge of a country, or another human being. Or even a dog. If my ego were a despot, it would be Kim Jong Il. But alive. AND AWESOME.
That’s it really.
Oh gawd I remember wearing that princess tiara all night and forgetting I was wearing it and talking to weird people on the street and being drunk and talking absolute verbal diarrhea. I was argumentative and I probably bored the pants off a lot of people but luckily woke up with my own pants intact, even though I do stink to high heaven.
Franco messaged me and he’s not hung over which I feel is wickedly unfair. But then he told me before leaving the session we went to afterwards with all these French people who I roved my eye over hungrily, thinking in love I may be but damn that accent on anyone is like honey, sexy, sexy honey… before we left that party to go home and sleep, I downed another glass of whiskey.
Damn I hope I wasn’t just really boring and annoying. I am sometimes. I might just be being introspective (uh, understatement of the day…) because I am hung over but I know I didn’t have one of those nights when I am entertaining and witty.
Franco asked me for advice on how to cure a sore throat (I am an authority on all things medicinal apparently) so that gave me the idea to have a hot whiskey too, because I actually smoked a full pack of tobacco last night. That’s bad…
I’m having a hot whiskey now and what goes with whiskey better than a cigarette? A cigarette and poker.
And…. that’s it probably.
Mmmmm… I’m feeling a bit better but will still need to nap significantly before I am ready for tonight, it’s gonna be another biggie I’m afraid. I hope I’m witty tonight. It’s so annoying I can’t seem to control when these dazzling bouts of awesomeness will strike. When I’m good I’m very very good, and when I’m bad I just talk about myself and argue with people who aren’t arguing with me and that makes the hangovers worse because I feel like everyone is going to hate me and avoid me in future.
Feel crusy, rusty and battered and bruised.
Remember queueing behind 8 women for the toilet, and there were two occupied toilets and one that was blocked with blood and shit and toilet paper and the women all stood hopping from one foot to the other, doing what is known as the peepee dance, and I just said ah fuck it, I’m only going to pee, it’s not like I’m eating a fancy meal or getting a massage, I don’t need the conditions to be attractive, and the women looked at me like I was disgusting, disgusting… and I peed onto the big pile of crud and left with an empty bladder while they all queued on for decency’s sake, probably jealous of my ability to be a dirty bitch. Even in Ireland I’m disgusting. It wasn’t just snooty Italian women who made me feel gross and uncouth. I’m just messy…
Snuck two little bottles of wine into the bar, I just stuffed them under my stretchy dress around the sideboob area. Was wearing a coat in so it was fine, no one saw. Wished I had brought in another two in my pockets though because the bouncers didn’t check anything going in.
Fuck I was so drunk last night… freaked out at one point because I had definitely, obviously lost money. I couldn’t have spent a whole 40 euros, impossible!
But of course there was a lot of drinking….
Anyway. Going to try go back to sleep, nursing my whiskey and maybe having another smoke but then definitely try sleep as tonight is going to be upon us soon enough!
Drunken smelly hugs to you all!