Episode 6: Why Being Bret Michaels For A Night Equates To Awesomeness

Okay so this is me feeling bad and writing another blog post. My guilty concise guilted me into it. I couldn't sleep at night anymore. I became a raging insomniac like a guy who is in constant fear of being caught by the Irish mafia leader he ripped off...

Okay okay, it may be that my boyfriend is busy and my friends/roomies are out for the night and I am utterly at a loss of what to do. I have watched Boogie Nights, painted my nails, played video games, watched half of So I Married An Axe Murderer and even in a last ditch attempt at entertainment I washed the dishes. So here I am, sitting shamefully in my sweats looking for some sort of confirmation in a blog I kind of forgot about for a while. 

So feel free to judge me you assholes. I know you are, but fine, a question must arise here...why are you sitting here reading my pathetic blog anyways? Why arnt YOU out doing something? Oh yeah, its because you live an even sadder existence then I.

Wow, if I hadn't lost all my fan base after my hiatus, by now it must have dwindled to my mom and the old ladies who stumble across these sites in their attempts to find oxygen tanks online.

But I am done insulting you to make my sad existence seem better. I do in fact have a story to tell. And it is one I promised I would never re-live. But as it has its own comedic value to it; and realistically I can't NOT tell a story about Bret Michaels on this blog (he is my life idol after all).

Now this story has a lot of greatness packed into one tiny night. And I can't promise that it will hold the same feeling as it did while it was happening. But to me this night was as legendary as the breakfast that followed it the next morning.

Now first I'm going to remind you who Bret Michaels is. Lead singer of Poison. Oh you don't know who Poison is? Perhaps you should look up the song "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" and then carefully study this picture.

Oh yeah, you know who I'm talking about. Now, this story all starts with a good friend of mine throwing a "trashy rockstar party". Not just a "Rockstar party" but a "TRASHY rockstar party". Therefore I had only one option to dress up as...my dear, sweet Bret Michaels.He was a clear choice because no guy who has a show called Rock Of Love in which the women are forced to kiss each other, strip, get naked and cat fight could possibly be anything other than a trashy rockstar.  

So I loaded on more eyeliner then I have ever worn in my life, got my friend to scribble on a snake/heart/sword tattoo and pulled on my skeeziest wifebeater/ripped jeans/ripped flannel vest combo and headed out with cider in hand.  It was a long bus ride down, and armed with Courtney Love, Kurt Cobain and a local Lust Boy we looked like motely crew of awkward teens in the early 90's. Once we reached the party it was an instant feeling of awesomeness.

Now, it was at this point I should've taken my own learning experiences (Read: Episode 5) and used that to gauge my ability to consume copious amounts of alcohol. But instead I went on empty stomach hoping to get the best bang for my buck and prayed to the god of debauchery to love and protect me that night.

The evening was going awesome. We drank cider till we were tipsy and danced like it was 1998. I think I had reached a comfortable drunkeness. I was fooling myself into believing that I could pull off a night of puke free bliss. But then came the decision that turned my night from being an "Amber" night to a "Bret" night. I decided to switch drinks with my friend, who was mixing fireball with coke, and lets just say he pours with a heavy hand.

Alright I was doing okay. Feeling a bit weird (I think I may have laid down for a minute..passed out, got back up and started dancing again). Okay, still a good night. Now kiddies: when you reach this point of drunk...walk away. Pack it in and call it a night. DO NOT ACCEPT SHOTS OF VODKA AT THIS POINT.

Yup..I did it. I pounded some shots of Vodka and kept partying. Then you get that feeling. You know the one. That feeling rising in your drunken stomach that makes all senses freeze and everything becomes a desperate need for a toilet to stick your head in. Yup.

So in the least drunken voice I could muster I turned to my roommate and whispered "I need to vomit". She then had my head over a toilet so fast it was probably recorded as a world record. At this point I once again lost consciousness for about a few minutes. I somehow then ended up in my friends bed (who was throwing the party) and woke up to vomiting into a plastic bowl/pail thing. And at this point I started telling my roommate witty jokes (because I am at my comedic best when I'm so hammG'ed I am throwing up).

After this went on for hours (okay probably 5 minutes) I passed out again. Then I re-awoke to my phone buzzing beside me. It turns out my roommate and her boyfriend had locked themselves in my friends scary/ creepy attic closet and couldn't get out. Their only saviour was me. Yeah....I had at this point convinced myself I couldn't move my legs. The attic thing was literally 2 steps away from.

So what does one do? I phoned my other roommate (who was downstairs) and begged her to save our friends from their certain death inside the closet. After witnessing their safe return to the outside I promptly passed out. I then awoke the next morning to being spooned by my friends (their was three of us in the bed).  It was horrifying and I might admit a little awesome.

Now my story gets awesome here. I had promised to meet a guy for brunch the next day. Never again. I rallied my friends for brunch and we fumbled out of the house smelling of vomit and self-loathing. We rode the bus in stricken silence. We rolled into the brunch place, they gave us that "look" one gets when they show up anywhere smelling of alcohol and day-old vomit. Oh and we were all wearing the clothes from the night before. Yeah, we looked like rockstars. Trashy ones at that.

Yeah we roll it classy like that. The best part of brunch was that the guy I was meeting showed up smelling of clean and looked great. I think he felt kind of ashamed for sitting with us. Oh and the great thing about being sick from drinking? You wake up so hungry that even greasy eggs and spinach on a buttered bagel becomes the greatest breakfast of your life.

Bret Michaels would've been so proud.

                 

The Weekly Nugget

From my roommate:

On Men 

"He Is A Little Bitch!"

Episode 5: An Apology And Drinking Advice

Okay...so I am feeling a bit sheepish posting here. I'm like that guy who played Urkel. I was only popular when I could hike my pants up real high and pull off multi-colored suspenders. But now that I'm older and I lost my puberty voice I have reclused myself to only doing terrible movies (Watch: Crococaurus Vs. Mega Shark).

So I apologize to my many readers out there. I have become involved in my extreme effort to become a deadbeat for the summer. In fact, I think I succeeded this weekend when I spent all weekend at the beach, eating bar-be-que and drinking heavily. But I have come to you bearing a gift about my life and some helpful advice to those of you who are feeling the need to drink heavily this summer and how to avoid some serious mistakes.


Now this story does involve some of my friends whose names I will not reveal here due to the secretive nature of this blog and the fact that I may or may not be speaking to one of the parties involved. In fact I think we arn't even friends on Facebook anymore. Well I know that certainly means we are officially not friends.


When I was younger and stupider...AKA last summer...I had made a decision to stop drinking, trust me when I say...WORST DECISION EVER, because of a certain relationship I was in.  This meant I had gone quite a few months without any liquor in my system. I had completely detoxed myself from my previous lifestyle of heavy partying and binge drinking. Okay maybe I'm being a bit dramatic, more like I stopped going out every other month for a friends birthday. But that didn't sound quite as fucking awesome did it?

Anywho, this fateful summer I was showing my horse at Spruce Meadows. Now it may look like a place of good clean family fun, but I kid you not Spruce Meadows is an enforcer of debauchery for the riders. In our gift basket things they willingly bestowed upon us a card that would get you into the skeeziest bar in the city for FREE. It was pretty much like giving an ADHD Kid 8000 pounds of sugar then setting him loose in an antique shop. Only bad things could come of it.


Anyways, my friend and I kept putting off using the free coupon. I mean we could have just not used it but realistically you can't just pass up free liquor. Now I had one problem. My boyfriend at the time was not a fan of drinking nor was he a fan of me drinking. I, however,  in this one instance of physcotic decision making, decided that both my friend and I would head out to the bar. Now, not to be rude or anything I invited him along, and offered to him that he should bring a friend.

This is where things get messy.

As per usual everyone had serious problems getting their shit together so we didn't end up leaving till late. Once we reached the bar, after a series of trains and walks, the line was insane. I'm not talking you have to wait five minutes kind of line, I'm talking like you ain't getting in tonight kind of line. But we soldiered on.

3 hours, 8 frozen toes and 4 huge hot dogs later we finally reached the front door. By this time we had gathered a new posse. One, a huge douche, you know the type, dressed in a suit jacket to hit up a club? Spiked hair and possibly just laid down some cash to get freshly frosted tips. Yeah, that kind of huge douche. The other, a more interesting man who wouldn't reveal to us where he lived or for that matter anything about him. I'm pretty sure within the hour he told his lived in 2 different cities.

Ahh the people you meet in lines at clubs. You know the kind.

After pestering the bouncer enough, we at last entered the club at 1.  We instantly realized we needed to be far drunker to even rationalize the thick of smell of desperation in the air. Without wasting time on coat check or even speaking to each other we got up to the closet bar and ordered about 20 drinks.

My Ex was less than impressed at me by this point. My friend and I started pounding shots of about every kind of alcohol. I'm not even kidding. It was perhaps in this moment that I may have told myself to slow down, but the frat boy in me was convinced that we were gonna make it out alive. Did I mention that most clubs close at 2? Yeaaaaahh.

Even after all those shots my friend and I were sure we hadn't had enough to drink. It was at this point in the night that things started to take a turn for the worst. We started stealing drinks. I should be ashamed, I should hang my head in complete embarrassment.  But the longest part of the night hadn't even started and my friend and I were already complete messes. It wasn't until the club closed that the true moral of this story reveals itself.

As we headed out of the club, my friend and I started to truly feel the effects of the liters of alcohol we had just consumed. We were stumbling around like grandma at Christmas after to much wine and the world became like a game to us. As we made our way back to public transit, distractions were abound. I remember the two of us sitting cross-legged under sprinklers and dancing around in the water. My Ex's friend attempted to jump a median (keep in mind he had also tried to keep up with us) and let's just say his ass paid for it.

My Ex, being the only sober one, tried to wrangle us into heading towards the station. We were like a group of 2 year-olds with severe ADHD. When he finally did get us into the station, my friend and I fumbled for change for tickets exclaiming "I CAN'T READ THIS SCREEN!!! IT'S BROOOOKEEEENNN!!!!!!" Then breaking into hysterics. Meanwhile, my ex's friend was already boarding the bus without another thought for the rest of us. It took a while but we finally managed to purchase tickets and get safely onto the train.

Now public transit at 2:30 in the morning is a scary and interesting place, kind of like an insane asylum at night. As we rode in silence, each contemplating the previous events, our night took it's final turn. As we neared our final stop, I looked directly into my ex's eyes and in a dead serious tone I said "I don't feel so good". The look of horror on his face told me one thing, our relationship would never recover from this night. He simply said "Throw up in my sweater". I shook my head like a pouty 5 year old and prepared to heave my dinner all over the train. In a grace of God we reached the station and my ex quite literally picked me up and ran me to the nearest garbage where I proceeded to vomit. My friend and his friend both left, while he held my hair back and I apologized profusely between dry heaves. It turns out his friend went and got in the car with my dad and my friend was just kind of wandering around the station.

After I had finished heaving my guts(at least 15 minutes), he asked if I was okay to move. I nodded, moved two steps and then cried "NO!!!! I can't do it!!!!" and started crying. Here he took matters into his own hands and picked me up dramatic style (imagine that final scene in season 3 OC Ryan carrying Marissa) and carried me up the stairs where I continued to vomit into another garbage. Finally, my friend re-appeared and helped me to the car. I promptly passed out.

an actual picture of me passed out

From this point I am going only from stories I heard. While my dad drove us home, my ex and his friend discussed how good McDonalds would be ( you know you've eaten McDicks when you were drunker then a skunk and woken up the next morning wondering what ever possessed you to buy that Big Mac or Blizzard). This conversation then prompted my dear friend to become violently ill in my Dad's truck and outside the truck.

I woke up at this sudden stop and upon seeing her vomiting I to then began to vomit up whatever was left in my stomach. My ex quickly jumped out to hold back the hair of both of us. My dad looked over at my ex's friend and prompted him with "shouldn't one of us get out and help?" my ex's friends response was this "Yup". Needless to say my ex had to go it alone.

I must interject and say, I had promised my ex earlier that night that I wouldn't drink "that much" and it was "more of social outing".

When we finally made it home, my mom was there to heckle us about our drunkenness. As we both headed downstairs my ex and his friend left. We have finally reached the lowest point in our story kiddies.

I made my way to the bathroom to go pee. I had the locked the door out of habit, and my friend at that moment suddenly had to vomit. I heard the angriest knocking at the door and while still on the toilet my friend burst in, proceeded to vomit in the bathtub and we both sat there looking at each other with vomit on our shirts and in the corners of our mouths.

Moral of the story: So by this point your probably to disgusted to ever read this blog again. I understand that. But if you take anything away from this blog let it be this. NEVER EVER bring your religious boyfriend out for a night of drinking and then get so raging drunk you can barely walk. Oh and never try to play "catch up" with an entire bar.

By the way, those tickets (you know, the whole reason we went) didn't even work by the time we got to the door of the club.

God has a sick sense of humor.