Happy New Year, whisker biscuits!*
(*another awesome word for vajens)
For reasons that are becoming less obvious and more ridiculous by the day, after New Year's Eve I decided to embark on a journey that I have been calling "No Drink January" (clever).
Really, I blame NYE.
New Year's Eve is like Valentine's Day mixed with Senior Prom and your 19th birthday: full of shattered dreams and broken condoms. So much hype combined with overly romantic and unrealistic expectations which are either never realized, or miraculously come to fruition only to be washed away in a violent sea of jager bombs and nose-puke.
This year my NYE went a little something like this: determined to learn from my previous mistakes, I decided to have zero expectations this year, which ended up working out in my favour* (*up for discussion)! It's like going to a movie that you've never heard of and have no idea what it's about, and then being pleasantly surprised when you're tits are subsequently jizzed upon by the awesomeness of the cinematic experience. (The opposite side of the coin is hearing that Avatar is so-fucking-awesome, then bashing your head into the chair in front of you when the battle scene continues for an unnecessary 5.2 hours and all you're left with at the end is nothing but PG-13 side boob with a disturbing lack of alien full-frontal...but that's a post for another time.)
The point is, I think we can all agree that things tend to work out more favourably in any situaysh when your expectations are either low or non-existent. So there I was. Dec 31. 9:30 pm. On the streetcar into Leslieville (Reason #1 for no expectations - who goes to Leslieville? wtf.) I chuckled to myself as the night started off with an unprecedented level of dog-shittiness. Here I am, painted up like a whure in heels and a party dress, on the fucking Queen streetcar, surrounded by crack heads and American Apparel clad teenagers who are chugging water bottles full of every-booze and screaming about how "Julia is SO gonna sleep with James tonight eeeeeee!" Good for fucking them.
I let out a deep sigh as we eventually made it through Nathan Philip's SQUARE territory, where I stared, disgusted, at the thousands of mom-jeans barely concealed by rain parkas swaying awkwardly to whichever lame Canadian "artist" was strumming away on her lady guitar on the stage. Sigh. "I hate this night" I thought bitterly as a homeless man coughed on the back of my neck from the filthy seat behind me. Close your eyes. Breathe. Lady Gaga will cure all (she didn't).
After what felt like hours of suffering on the TTC, I eventually made it to my destination: a cute little sushi resto / bar recently opened by one of my friend's boyfriends. Being the total man hero that he is, he agreed to close the bar to the general pube-lick for the night and let my friend invite all her friends inside for $60 of open bar and pizza. OK - not too shabby. Still, I see my friends every weekend. Why am I traversing the city through murder-inspiring traffic and spending $60 to hang with them when we could just chug the 60 of JD I have and call it a day? No matter, I enter the party (or did it enter me? More on this later.).
To my surprise and delight, there are other (attractive and young) peeps (girls) here! Everyone knows that a party's success depends almost entirely on the amount of hot babes present. So far, good start. AND about 15 of my friends who claimed they weren't coming to this particular party (another reason I hate New Years - everyone is so crippled by FOMO that they shit themselves for weeks trying to figure out where the best, nay ONLY place to be is! Aaaaand then they end up where you knew they would all along. But good show.) Ok! Things are looking...up?! I felt a strange tight feeling in my chest that in hindsight I realized was actual human excitement. wee!
The slow but steady upward climb continued from that moment on. First, I got to control the music (ipod DJ). Anyone who has ever met me knows that this is the one true key to my heart. A little Biggie to start the night, the crowed felt the shit out of it, and my girl-boner began to swell.
Fast forward to two hours later, the M original play list is fucking everyone in the mouth, and my girl boner is now basically throbbing with unbridled pleasure. eee! I should probably add that by this point in the night I had been drinking "Champagne Bombs" (think jager bombs but with champagne - thanks for inventing these S.C., you bitch) for hours. I remember counting down to midnight, lots of champagne flute clinking, being kissed by gay men (a certain sexy non-gay man was M.I.A., prompting my friends to take pity on my mouth), "dancing" (falling) and many girls-gone-wild moments (which I deliciously caught on tape - you know who you are. and yes I will sell these photos one day when one of you becomes Prime Minister).
I also vaguely remember the speakers blowing after the one hundredth "TURN IT UPPP!!!!" scream from the crowd when Run This Town came on. And after this - nothing till the next morning. Apparently there was an after party where I threw some kind of a tantrum (doesn't sound like me at all) when I "lost" my purse and coat (they were exactly where I left them). Luckily one of my friends decided to take pity on me and assist me into a cab. I should mention that she was puking out of the cab the whole way home, yet was voted less drunk than me. You know you're a winner when a puking chick is voted more able to protect your well-being and anal virginity than you are.
January 1, 2010. 12 pm. I awaken.
Instantly I realize that I am not in my own bed, or my own home. I also realize that I'm not wearing any pants or underwear. good. I AM, however, wearing a T-shirt that I do not recognize at all. Party dress and heels nowhere in sight. Panic begins to course through my alcohol-filled veins. I sit up slowly and painfully and catch a glimpse of some hideous sea-hag type monster looking me straight in the eye! I almost cry out for help before realizing oh wait, that's me looking in the mirror. Hair still fully in updo, make up on (but looks like someone set the make up gun to "whore"). again, good. Those who know me know that even at my MOST wasted I still manage to wash my face every single time. Except for maybe three occasions in my entire life which have easily been the three drunkest nights of my drinking career. So, I guess we can add this one to the list. FML.
I was so distracted by the utter horror of having no idea how I managed to still be avec-make up and sans pants that I temporarily forgot about the part where I HAD NO IDEA WHERE I WAS. Quickly - look around you! I saw an open closet, full of girl clothing. So...I'm in a girl's bed? This is ...good...ish. I felt something stabbing into my thigh under the covers - a lighter. Right because... I have no idea. Completely confused and defeated, I let out a low whimper which was answered by a cry of pain from somewhere else in this mystery house. I realized suddenly that I was at my beaver-loving girl friend's house. Let's call her DS. I've never been upstairs here hence the not-knowing-where-I-was part. And I was apparently in her roommate's room, who thank God was out of town. That was a close one, but I still felt like an animal. And where the fuck is my dress? I later found it IN MY BAG. DOWNSTAIRS. No.
DS and I then had simultaneous meltdowns at the revelation that we've BOTH lost our phones!...only to discover we each have the other's phone. Obv. We started piecing together the previous night which had a staggering amount of blackout periods. I realized that I didn't call sexy M.I.A. boy as promised the night before and immediately started whimpering about what a terrible person I was before DS finally informed me that, in fact, I did attempt to make the promised long-distance shout out approximately 47 times to no avail. Clearly the fingers I used to dial were too fat. I did succeed, according to her, in violently cursing at my phone, the North and South islands of New Zealand, and the gods in general, before finally passing out to every one's overwhelming relief. FTW.
I eventually made it home in the t-shirt, leather-legging things, no socks and borrowed running shoes (obviously I left my own boots in the Land of Lost somewhere) and miraculously not-lost jacket. I then proceded to drink about 11 caesars at my house with a collection of my most hung over girlfriends until about midnight.
Cut to the next morning. I had to wake up early, rent a car and drive to butt-rape Ontario for yet another Family Christmas gathering (why). As I cruised down the 401, already an hour and a half late, with a raging headache, tears streaming down my face and only the faintest whispers of a will to live, No-Drink January was born.
And here we are.
It's been three weeks, kids! Three weeks since the she-devil called booze has slipped it's way down my soft pink throat. Three weeks without skull-fucking hangovers, drunk-dials, bloated alcohol body, beer shits, sleepless nights and other assorted alcohol-associated life failures. Three weeks of saving tons of bling, thousands of calories, heaps of self-respect and tit-loads of dignity.
And you know what I've realized? I fucking. love. alcohol.
Party in my mouth on Feb 1!!! All (who bring sweet sweet liquor) are invited. See you then.
Oh, and PS: fuck all of you who are getting drunk tonight.