Rib-cracking, head-splitting fun!

This is an old post from when I was young and stupid. I’m actually quite amazed I survived my twentieth year on this planet. I have edited it slightly to avoid all-consuming embarrassment but you can see the unedited version on my Facebook page if we’re friends. Make sure you enter the contest.

9:10pm I met my friend Mr. Army in the courtyard of my building and we proceeded to shimmy like idiots to absolutely no music, without speaking. I’m still not sure why, and yes, we were sober at this point.

9:30pm We arrived at Maxwell’s Plum in search of what Mr. Army called a “Meter of Beer”.

We got the bitchiest waitress ever who practically told us off each time she checked in. She told us that the 60-ouncer is as big as they come, so obviously we order it. My evening of casual drinks is started to look interesting.

The 60 ouncer came in what looks like a giant blender, with it’s own tap for our convenience. She brought three glasses since she’s not supposed to serve it to less than 3 people. Oh god.

10:30pm We headed to the Split Crow pub to meet up with 5 army buddies of my partner-in-crime.

11:00pm I bought Mr. Army and I a pitcher, he bought us Jack Daniels shots, another army dude bought us a tequila shot. I’m not positive but I think Mr. Army bought another pitcher too.

11:30pm Leigh, one of my longest-running friends and her man showed up, I remember having a drink in my hand…no idea what. I ditched the army table to talk to them by the bar until Mr. Army came stumbling down from the back saying that we’re moving to Tribeca, a bar up the street.

On the walk up, I remember laughing and yelling a lot and being half-carried by a variety of people…yes…at only 11:30pm.

Midnight: We had a section of lounge couches off of the dance floor at Tribeca. I don’t remember drinking at all here, but witnesses have said otherwise. Specifically, the only one drunker than me ordered us all “the most expensive shot” they had. Too bad none of us remember what it was, what it tasted like or how much it cost. My guess is that they served us dishwater.

The last thing I remember clearly(ish) is my trip to the washroom, where on my way out, Mr. Army was coming in. I believe I tried to strike an excited-to-see-him pose and completely wiped out backwards. He tried to catch me but also fell, effectively crushing me even harder into the floor of the bathroom. My head smashed on the garbage can, I can only assume the cuts on my arm happened here and his weight, I believe, is what bruised my rib since he fell pretty hard. It hurt to breathe for a solid two months.

12:30-1:30am I haven’t a clue what happened here. I guess I sat down at the couches some more, with my shirt off on numerous occasions. I can’t stress how wildly out of character it is for me to remove my shirt under any conditions, let alone in a public place. Not to mention how Tribeca is NOT the place to remove one’s shirt.

Mrs. Army (the lovely girlfriend) kept trying to get my shirt back on since I couldn’t do it myself (thank you for that) and we all went dancing “like our asses were on fire”, according to one witness. I imagine I bumped into just about everyone in the club so I am pleased to have not started any fights.

1:45am After causing one too many scenes, we decided to leave before being removed. Mr. Army carried me out of the bar. The remaining crew hailed a cab and Mr. Army tried to wrestle me into it, I refused because I knew the newf was going to pick me up, however I didn’t voice this so I just looked drunk and difficult. Have I mentioned that I’m amazing?

Keep in mind that my opponent works out a lot and therefore had the upper hand, despite possibly being intimidated by my shirtless physique. Supposedly, he had his arms wrapped around me, sitting half in the cab trying to drag me into it. I squirmed away while cursing for what seemed to be no apparent reason which was enough for the cab driver to take off with all of them in the car. They watched me as they drove away, standing in the middle of the street by myself…topless.

1:54am First call to the newf, no answer

1:58am Second call to the newf, no answer

2:02am Third call to the newf where out of an entire sentence, he manages to decode “Tribeca…..come get me…”

Within the 5 minutes it took him to get to the downtown core, I called three more times. When he’s coming around the corner by Reflections, he says he can’t see me at Tribeca but then…”Wait…are you the TOPLESS one?!?”

The ever-patient newf opened the car door, I collapsed into it and he lifted my legs in. On the drive home, I repeatedly tried to explain how much we are in love, amidst many slurs, only to start a fight when an “I love you too” was returned by saying “Don’t say it because you feel you HAVE to!!!!”. I don’t know why I’m not single right now and for the rest of my life.

I continued to refuse to put my shirt on until physically forced to do so before walking through the apartment building. And by walk, I obviously mean be carried.

2:20am An “I’m going to be sick” ’causes me to be thrown in to the bathroom despite me not being able to stand on my own two feet. What happened in the washroom from then on is saved for the Facebook version so that I’m not competely throwing away my self-respect for a cheap laugh on the internet. But I will tell you that it includes more head trauma.

Cracked ribs, minor concussion and I can’t bring myself to ever step foot in Tribeca again.