Wednesday, November 26, 2008

Saturday Night I Feel the Air is Getting Hot. Like You, Baby.

“Peach, I really don’t think you should drink any Red Bull tonight.”

TheHippie tenderly takes my hand in hers and shouts over the noise of the band in the crowded bar. It is a touching moment.

“Seriously, you’ve been a little cracked out on the Bull. You need to detox before your nervous system collapses. No Red Bull! No Jager-bombs! Take it easy! Stick to Gin and shots of Tequila. For your health. Please.”

I look deep into her worried little eyes. Oh, how I love this wee Hippie. I pat her curly hair and grip her hand.

“Ok, TheHippie. For you.”

The band breaks into a rowdy rendition of “Sweet Caroline” as I make eye contact with Workahol over the table. She nods discreetly and slips out of her chair. I meet her at the bar.

“Two Jager-bombs. Extra Bull.”

I can’t help it. I have a problem. It’s called “I haven’t slept more than 2 hours/night in 2 weeks and I know the Bull might give me a heart attack, but if I don’t chug one RIGHT NOW you will probably find me passed out under a pile of coats in about 15 minutes.”

Workahol understands. She is, after all, a workahol. We clink our glasses.

“Here’s to reaching the point in our careers where we don’t sleep, have no lives, and require extensive amounts of energy drink just to function in a pub. And it’s only 9:30pm. Here’s to us. Now, let’s get fucked up.”

“Amen, bitch.”

I slap her ass and she squeals and skips back to the table. I order a gin and go sit next to TheHippie.

“See? Just a gin.”

“You’re talking really fast.”

“And you, ma’am are a drunk.”

“YES I AM! LET’S GET FUCKED UP!!!”

I love my friends. We had started drinking at 6pm back in QueenB’s apartment. First there was wine, then there was gin, then there were about 6 rounds of mystery shots made by Workahol. We were stumbling by 8pm. By 9pm, Cleavage had me thrust up against a wall while Englishman frantically took pictures. By 9:05pm, Cleavage had me thrust up against a wall while holding Workahol on her back, while Englishman frantically took pictures and thanked Jebus for drunk whores. TheHippie had her crazy eyes before we even left the house.

"I'm gonna hook up tonight," she said repeatedly.

Fast forward to the bar. It is now 10:30pm and multiple rounds of shots have been consumed by all. We are dancing like svelte ninjas. It is not a dancing bar. The band suddenly breaks into “So Happy Together” by The Turtles. I scream, dig my cell phone out of my purse, and call MortalCombat.

“Hello?”

*sings* “IMAGINESH ME AND YOU! I DO! I DREAM ABOUT USH DAY AND NIGHTS! IT’S ONLY RIGHTS!!!”

“Peach??! Where are you?? Aren’t you in the BigCity tonight?”

*sings* “TO THINKS ABOUTS THE GIRL YOU LOVE! AND HOLD HER TIGHTSH! SO HAPPY TOGETHERRRRRRR!”

“Ohmigod, are they playing our song in a bar? Are you drunk??! Wait, of course you are. OHMIGOD, DID YOU JUST DRUNK DIAL ME BECAUSE THEY’RE PLAYING OUR SONG?? I LOVE YOU!!!”

*Both sing* “I CAN’T SEE ME LOVING NOBODY BUT YOU! FOR ALL MY LIIIIIFE! WHEN YOU’RE WITH ME BABY THE SKIES WILL BE BLUE! FOR ALL MY LIIIIFE!!”

“MortalCombats I loves you!!!”

“Oh my god, I love you too, Peach. Come home.”

“Soons, my pet. Soons.”

*click*

I return to the table and my friends have decided that we should move on to a new bar. One that can accommodate our current level of drunk whoring. One like Philthy McNasty’s.

We arrive at the new bar and I make eye contact with Workahol.

“Two Jager-bombs. Extra Bull.”

As we’re chugging the bounty of our lord, two boys approach us. They offer to buy us shots. But of course, kind Sirs.

Many shots later, TheHippie joins us. She partakes in the shots. Things start getting fuzzy. The next thing I know TheHippie’s tongue is in my mouth. It’s not entirely disagreeable. I’m not sure who grabbed who. Kissing is nice. Shockingly, a new round of shots is purchased for us by the kind Sirs. The poor boys don’t understand that TheHippie and I have a pure and non-sexual love. What they are witnessing is not lust, but mutual respect and adoration.

I grab her knocker. (actually, in this picture Cleavage is grabbing her knocker. I'm on the left. With my bra hanging out. Professionalism.)

We all decide it’s time to dance.

There is a pole on the dance floor. At one point TheHubby thrusts me up against it. This is a recurring theme in my life. I visit the ladies room and Cleavage follows. We hate being separated by the shitter stalls so we stand on the toilets to converse more freely with each other. Someone else needs to use the terlet so we climb back down. Morosely.

More dance floor pole thrusting. I haven’t seen TheHippie in an hour. I start whimpering. Where is my love?

I’m in a cab, nuzzled into Cleavage’s cleave.

“Itsh oks, Peach. You’ll shee her tomorrows.”

“I might vom now.”

The cabbie eyes me wearily.

TheHubby chimes in. “Don’ts vom, Peach. I’llsh punch yous in the box if yous do.”

“OHAI HUBBY!”

Back home, QueenB puts me to sleep next to Englishman and Cleavage. Our Squatter’s village is cozy. But it is missing one special person.

“QueenB, wheres ish Hippie?”

“She wentsh homes with Bubba. Now go to sleeps. You haves a train in the morning.”

I pass out.

Sans pants. Sans Hippie.

ThePeach

ps - VOTE!! http://cdnba.wordpress.com/vote-2008/best-personal-blog/

1 comment:

AsianCymbals said...

YOU WERE IN BIGCITY?!! Goddamn. It's okay, it's not like I would have been cool to hang with. I spent that night playing Settlers of Catan with some friends after we had put our baby down to sleep.

But...sads.