Monthly Archives: April 2015

My Mornings with Fat Face

It’s beginning to feel like a big chunk of my days are spent waiting for Fat Face to either wake up or get off from work so that he can answer my questions about the night before. This is what my life has been reduced to.

After a big night out, meaning after Fat Face and I have drank like the world is coming to an end and played with sidewalk chalk or jumped into some body of water and laughed at the word vag at least ten times (and other behaviors generally associated with twelve year old’s), I generally wake up somewhere between 7:00 and 8:00 and have a ton of questions I need to ask Fat Face, so I get so impatient when I have to wait until 1:00pm before I can begin to figure out my life again. I antagonize him regularly about how he does not wake up until after noon, to which he always says, “I get it Caitlin, you’re an adult and I’m a child.” Currently, I am trying to figure out where the fuck my comforter is. How does one lose a huge bed comforter?

If he passes out out at my place, I almost always get up in the morning still drunk, and go to work. Fat Face will kind of sit up for a second, with this face that looks like he was literally just born, like he knows and understands nothing of this life, and will begin to put on his stupid pizza socks and will mumble about how I’m being way too loud. “Oh my God. Can you just stop talking,” he’ll often say to me.

Because I am still drunk, so my very many questions have not yet manifested, and because I don’t think that he becomes a full human again until three o‘ clock in the afternoon so trying to communicate with him before that time is futile, I leave for work before we have a chance to discuss the events of the evening prior. He goes to McDonald’s and gets fat food (which is what we call junk food), then goes home and passes back out while I eat a low-fat yogurt and slave away behind a bar.

Only a couple of weeks ago, if I didn’t know better, I would have thought that I was drugged. I had so many questions including, did I hook up with anyone, where are my bed sheets, where is my wallet and should I never show my face again at the bar that we were at? I was SO annoyed when Fat Face didn’t call me back before he went into his evening shift at work, so I had to wait until 11:00 at night, before I had a few answers about what the hell happened the night before and if it was possible that I needed to get an STD panel. Kidding!

This is what I woke up to that morning:
“Can you look at how gross you are right now?!”

Fat Face was literally on top of me, yelling that into my face, waking me up just so that he could point out how disgusting I was. I had thrown-up off the side of my bed, which I don’t even a little bit recall, so there was vomit all over the floor and in parts of my hair. It was not cute. I just started laughing. He was not much better, he was green and while I was getting ready for work, he kept going outside to throw-up into my flower bed. He had to drive me to my car because I was way too drunk to drive home the night before, and he had to pull over on the way so that he could throw-up and I was laughing and taking pictures of him. I shouldn’t say that he pulled over because what he actually did was stop in the middle of the damn road, open his door and barf onto the street. Instead of pulling off on a side street like a half-way respectable person, he just pulled into the middle turning lane and flung the door open while cars zoomed past. I was definitely still drunk during this whole process, because I got to work and was pretty okay until around noon, that’s when the Beefeater really started to kick my ass. I think it was five times that I had to run to the bathroom to quickly throw-up in between making Bloody Mary’s for the annoyingly chipper bar patrons.

I think that it’s safe to say that I’m a seasoned drinker, so I very rarely puke from alcohol consumption, and this level of atrophy is one of the things that made me think that I had been drugged. I hadn’t been sick and hung-over like that since I was a freshman in college. Even more disturbing than that, I do not remember even finishing my second drink. Second drink! Are you kidding me? It usually takes a few drinks before I even have a good buzz, so I do not understand how it is that I was blackout drunk after 1.5 drinks. Something odd must have just been going on with my body that night because there is no way I was drugged. I was only with Fat Face, and we were at a bar that we’ve been to a million times, being served by a bartender who has served us a million times and surrounded by geriatrics. It looked like it was Bingo night in there. Apparently, we had a great time though! Once I finally got in touch with Fat Face, he informed me that we were dancing in front of the jukebox, fake humping each other and playing a game of, who can embarrass the other the worst? Yes, we have grown less mature with age.

When I got back home after work that day, I discovered that my bed sheets were gone. I’m assuming that in the morning, when I was still drunk and cleaning up my vomit, that I took them off of the bed, but I have no idea where they went. I must have thrown them away. Who does that?! I’m sure my intentions were to put them in the laundry, but I clearly failed. My whole day was out of whack because I feel like I spent most of it waiting for answers from Fat Face, though he didn’t provide much. I found old bed sheets that I’ve been using, but I still have not replaced my pillow cases and have been using an uncovered pillow.

The only reason why I have even sat down to write this entry, is because I’m killing time while I’m currently waiting for Fat Face to call me back about last nights questions. I seem to have trouble with sleep-time essentials when I’m wasted because this morning, after Fat Face and I had a night of breaking into the neighbors pool at 3:00am and thinking that it would be a good idea to get sandwiches from a gas station, I could not find my bed comforter and I don’t understand what I wore to bed. When I got home from work, I discovered that my bed had no blanket on it at all, so I texted Fat Face, “where the fuck is my comforter?” Of course, no response because it was 4:00 in the afternoon and way too early for him. Later, I found my clothes that I had been wearing laying on my living room table. I definitely woke up clothed, but I don’t remember in what and I want to make sure that I was at no point naked for some absurd reason during the night. Another text to Fat Face, “do you know why my clothes are on the living room table?”

Five hours later and I finally get a reply from Fat Face (he had been at work) which says, “Don’t care. But I’m growing a tale from swimming in that septic pool water last night.” To my comforter question, he just said, “Jesus Christ,” as if he is some superior Sober Sally in the situation, and then went on to tell me that he was, “having a love affair with an ice cream sandwich.” Cool. Good talk.

Still unclear if he does in fact know the answers to my questions, but I’m sure that I’ll forget about them in a few days when Fat Face and I have yet another long night which will start the cycle all over of me wasting my day waiting for him to reply to me, even though I know that he will ultimately not provide me with many answers.

I’d like to quickly inform all that Fat Face honestly believed that black people make up 50% of the American population. I definitely remember that discussion because it was quite a sobering moment. “Fat Face, they are a MINORITY.”
“Okay…” he says, “so like 48%.”
“WHAT?! It’s probably like 20% at the most.”
“Caitlin, are you kidding me?”
“Are you kidding me?! You think that there is one black person for every white person here? You are being so embarrassing right now. Don’t say that out loud anymore because you sound retarded.”

I ended up googling it for him later, to which we learned that black people make up 17.7% of the American population. He’s not the only one who learned a valuable lesson that night. I learned that it is not possible to finish a 750 piece puzzle in one evening. Me believing that may have been equally as asinine and delusional as Fat Face believing that African Americans make up half of the U.S. population. I am definitely never letting him live that down.

Any eligible woman out there, don’t let his embarrassing oversight perturb you. He is still hot and single and has a clap on/off lamp and even manages to make mundane activities like doing puzzles, a lot of fun. Oh, and the only photograph he has up in his whole house is a framed baby picture of himself.

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