Tag Archives: drunk stories

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.”
“Whatever.”

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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Part 1 of 2: Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 12

I hate anonymity, but I’ve been participating in it recently, occasionally giving the boys that I write about pseudonyms so that their ex’s or girl that they flirted with one night over a pitcher of beer and a soccer game, don’t get offended.  I guess me giving them bullshit names, is my way of not cock-blocking my friends.  But come on girls, stop getting pissed at guys just because they have a story that doesn’t include you.  It’s embarrassing.  So because I’m annoyed right now that I have to practice restraint, I am going to give my friend the pseudonym “fat face” for this entry.  Generally, I would call him “My Love,” a name we’ve been calling each other since 2003, but he pissed me off, so he’s not getting the nice nickname today.

I’d like to note that Fat Face is not at all fat.  He’s actually quite good-looking and I like picking out ties for him because he has a good fashion sense and when he’s feeling especially sweet, he’ll even let me pick out his outfit.

Him and I always have a lot of fun together.  Whether I’m making him play Monopoly with me, or we’re hoping fences and jumping into high school pools at 3:00 in the morning, we always have a great time.  We have been hanging out a lot because at the moment we’re both single(ish), we live in the same city, have a self-destructive personal life and put up with each other’s obnoxious tendencies, so I’d say he’s my partner in crime.  He’s also one of my best friends.

When we were teenagers, we had a whole group of friends who would rally together and participate in these slightly illegal, yet harmless activities such as spray painting city light bulbs, climbing on roofs and planning underground Beta fish fight clubs.  The rest of the “crew” have gone on to have fully functioning adult lives, and Fat Face and I are the two who still blow bubbles and giggle at the word vagina.  I’m sure our inability to settle down is due to our deep inner discontent, but this is something we choose to ignore for the most part when we’re together.  We just have too much damn fun to bother with gross discussions of the true reasons of why we push everyone away.

This screenshot perfectly sums up our friendship:

IMG_0130That is a very brief explanation of our most recent history, maybe I’ll get into our more advanced history some other time, but for now, we’re talking about what he did to piss me off, and the sinful events that took place after.  While on the phone with him the other night, he said something that was probably true, but I was not trying to hear it right then.  It was something along the lines of me always getting myself into ridiculous situations because I “welcome” them.  He went on to just dig himself into a hole, including statements such as, “I’m entertained by them though!”  I basically took it to mean that he doesn’t take me, or my life seriously.

“Fat Face.  Fat Face.  Stop talking.  I’m hanging up on you.”

“No!  No!  Don’t hang up.  Please!”

“Yes, I’m going.  You’re making me mad.”

“You know that’s not what I meant!”

“Whatever.  Bye.”

Of course, we were kind of laughing, even as we were yelling at each other.  He knows me well enough to know that I just needed a night to settle down and that by tomorrow I’d only be 60% mad at him, so he let me go.  I was planning on a low-key night, it was 10:00pm and I was sitting at a Starbucks instead of a bar.  After Fat Face ambushed me with that however, I felt I deserved a cocktail to unwind from the mental uneasiness he so graciously offered.  I brought my book to a nearby bar, sat in my spot and ordered a Beefeater martini with two olives.

20 pages and 20 ounces of gin later, and I was humoring this guy next to me, pretending to listen as he discussed something relating to baseball I think, and something relating to his dog, which I definitely didn’t give a shit about.  This went on for about a half hour, but once he busted out the iPhone to show me pictures of his damn dog that I didn’t ask about, I gave myself a Caitlin pep talk.  It went something like this:

Why the fuck are you talking to this guy?  You know you’re just humoring him because you’re bored and pissed at Fat Face.

After my pep talk, I decided to actually look at the guy whose time I was currently wasting.  He was a child.  This kid must have been freshly 21.  Okay, now things were getting interesting, I thought.  Fat Face is always getting himself involved with little girls who still take bathroom mirror selfies, and the kid I was talking to was their male counterpart.

Once I discovered the irony, I was eating it up.  I began to actually make eye-contact, asked him what his dumb dog’s name is and even went as far as to inquire about what it feels like to have been born in the ’90s.  In hindsight, it was obviously my way of lashing out at Fat Face’s statement.  You think I “welcome” my ridiculous situations?  Well watch this!

Just call me Ms. Maturity.

The child and I got up to go outside, and he was carrying a fucking duffel bag.  Immediately after that hilarious discovery, which I of course called him out on, I found out that he doesn’t have a car.  Even better.  Here I am, a 27-year-old professional, (sort of) about to make a bad decision with a kid who carries around a duffel bag, has no car and wears pink button up shirts.  “So does that mean I’m taking you home?” I asked.

“Yes.”  Oh God.

To be continued…

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The Small Town Freak Show

Some advice before I dive into my anecdotal account of last night that included front handsprings, cripple karaoke and a 42-year-old wearing no underwear:  Tread softly with your words, my friends.  Caitlin Rule:  Once you say something out loud, it makes it real, whether you fight it or not.  Relationships are a good example.  You may have thoughts that are trying their best to surface, but once you admit OUT LOUD that your boyfriend/girlfriend is not the one, it’s now real.  It’s doomed.  So be wise with your words.

I sat here for a solid ten minutes, trying to figure out the most concise way to describe Micah (the commando 42-year-old).  Unfortunately, the phrase “town drunk” kept invading my thoughts.  Not because I deemed him with that title, but just because I had heard someone else describe him as such in the past, so now, because of my rule, that’s the first thing I think of when attempting to describe him.  However, I am going to wash him of this title in this entry because I think, when you remove the blinders, that Micah is fantastic.

I was at a local bar, having a martini to try to ease my anxiety over how to get my phone up and running again.  I had my laptop out, a couple of cords… apparently I had to do some kind of “master reset” which included backing up files and blah blah blah.  I’m not huge on the technological front, so this was absolutely a chore for me.  Cut to:  A middle-aged man of about 6’1″ and 290 lbs. sporting a visor, basketball shorts and a long chin beard approaches.

Me:  “What’s up, Micah?  Haven’t seen you around lately.”

He and I are acquainted through the relatively small town of Safety Harbor in which we live.  Most of the locals who are regulars at any type of watering hole, all seem to be at least acquainted.  We’ve shared beer and conversation a couple of times in the past, and it’s always a great time.  Frivolous, boring small talk does not exist in Micah world.  I dare say that our conversations sometimes take an inappropriate route, considering how well we do NOT know each other, but I live off of these types of encounters.  Let’s just say that in the past, instead of the first few minutes of verbal exchange being about how business is and what a rainy summer it’s been, we have immediately gone into discussions of hooking up with people with three nipples and strippers on speed dial.

The first time I had a real conversation with him, he disclosed some honesty, and that was the moment that I knew I liked him.  Honesty is a rarer quality than we think.  Just because you don’t lie, doesn’t mean that you’re honest.  About five months ago:

Micah: I love your hair, man.  It’s always crazy.

Me: Thank you.  That makes me feel good.

Micah:  (Without breaking eye contact) I could tell you right now, what every girl in this bar’s body looks like.

Me: (laughing)

Micah: But I have no idea what your body looks like because I’m always looking at your hair.

And that’s when I knew he was a cool dude.  Honesty.  Some girl’s would have taken offense to his overtly sexist statement, but I loved his candor and that’s where Micah lives.  In a permanent state of candor.

Last night, when he asked me what I was doing (this was because of all of the forms of technology I had before me, along with an abiding scowl), I didn’t bore him with my story of how my phone wasn’t working, I simply said, “Just trying to deal with my first world problems.”  This sparked a discussion about the difference of the worlds, that I can most easily summarize as such:

Getting arms and legs hacked off by angry Somalians. + Having perpetual bad breath. = Third World problems

Having trouble catching a chicken in your backyard + only having vodka as an available alcohol choice = Second World problems

My BlackBerry not having service for a whole day = First World problems.

That was the beginning of our conversation, Caitlin and Micah theories on World Economic Division.  It grew from there.  Out of nowhere, he shared with me, and the other bar patrons that he was not wearing any panties.  Yes, he used the word “panties.”  I hate that word, but found it hilarious that he would describe his XXL plaid boxers (this is a guess) as “panties.”  A couple of drinks later, and now we’re doing acrobatics in the bar’s patio.

As much as I consider myself a Professional Drinker, I suck at taking shots.  I don’t particularly like them because I actually like the taste of alcohol and want to enjoy my drink, and also, I just can’t open my throat the way that Professional Shot-takers can.  Micah, making fun of me about this, led to the bar talking about what other things you can open your throat for… and somehow this led to Micah discussing his desire to start a Safety Harbor freak show and what role each of us would play in it.  Quickly, this became a one on one conversation, as the others couldn’t keep up with our weirdness.  I was wracking my brain for any quirky things that I can do, (since sword swallowing wouldn’t be my talent) and remembered that I can walk on my hands for a really long time!

Micah: Do it!

Me: I can’t when I’ve been drinking!  It throws my equilibrium off.

Micah: Walk on your goddamn hands!

Me: No!

Micah: I’ll do a front handspring if you walk on your hands.

Me: Then I’m definitely not.  That sounds like a disaster.

Micah: (Pulling his pants up and moving patio furniture out of the way) I’m doing it.

Me: No!

Micah: This is going to hurt.

Me:  Okay!  Okay!  I’ll walk on my hands if you don’t attempt a front handspring.  You’re going to break your entire body.

Micah: It’s happenin’ baby.

Me:  All right, all right I’m doing it!

I kick up into a handstand, and with numerous drinks flowing through my veins, I managed to walk on my hands for a solid ten seconds.  Impressive, considering my state… but it still ended with me on the ground.  You’d think that would be embarrassing, but it wasn’t at all.  Thinking back, it would have been embarrassing had I not let loose and tried.

I thought that my sacrifice would stop my 290 lbs. friend from attempting a front handspring on the concrete patio.  Nope.  He goes for it.  Lands flat on his ass.  Does this deter him?  Nope.  Again.  And again.  Three front handsprings, all ending on his tailbone.  I’m sure he was sore today.  Back inside, we told the others what they had just missed out on.  This got a forty-something year old lady to bust out with her talent; a full split on both sides.  Impressive.

I found myself feeling like an excited little kid again, eager to think up a new trick that I could try.  At one point, Micah looked at me and said, “You’re glad you did it.”  Referring to the handstand.  I didn’t want to admit it to him, but he was right.  I really was.  It was fun.  For the first time in quite a while, I was having unguarded fun out at a bar.

We then made our way to another bar across the street where there was a crippled guy singing shit karaoke.  Although I didn’t recognize any of the songs, I assumed them to be Pantera or Anthrax or some other abhorrent psuedo rock band, Micah knew the words to EVERY song.  And he was singing along, LOUD.  It was hilarious.  He did not give a fuck.  Then, some chick got on stage, and sang a song that I recognized.  I found myself loudly singing along as well… and I never sing.  Our singalong definitely turned some heads, but we didn’t care.  How did this guy that I barely know, get me to let loose again?  His whole “don’t take life too seriously” attitude, reminded me of an illustration in Breakfast of Champions of a tombstone.  The name simply says, “SOMEBODY.”  Instead of a birth and death date, it says “sometime to sometime” and then for the headstone quote it reads, “He tried.”  I wanted to share this with Micah, so I quickly drew it out for him.  He studied it for a short moment, then took the pen out of my hand and made his own edits.

He inserted “kept” and added an i-n-g, making the headstone quote now read, “He kept trying.”  Leave it to a true badass to one up Kurt Vonnegut.  So there you have it, words of the wise from my fellow barfly.  Just keep trying.

As I’ve stated before, in I Dare You, Smartphone Hater and My Rulesgive everyone the time of day.  People who are a little rough around the edges, are usually the most interesting.  And if they make you slightly uncomfortable, before you judge, take a look at yourself, and maybe you’re the one who just needs to let loose a little bit and get on the Small Town Freak Show train.  My assignment to you, go do a cart-wheel or something and fail, but have fun.

I knew that by the end of writing this blog entry, that I’d figure out how to more accurately describe Micah.  He is a non-fiction antihero.  He’s just a dude who is unapologetically himself, living in a small, sleepy town, trying to wake everyone the fuck up.

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I Dare You

Laying low at a bar.  What else is new.  I was reading Maxim at a high top in the shadowed area of the Chic-a-Boom Room, a cool spot located in Dunedin, Florida.  Two guys walked by, and a few seconds later, one of them comes back around.

“My friend told me to turn left for the bathroom, but I had to turn right to tell you how pretty you are.”

I literally laughed out loud.  I fucking love cheesy pick-up lines.  I think they’re so much fun.  My favorite…

(Picture a boy acting like he’s in a deep discussion with another friend, then turns to you…)  “Hey.  Do you know how much a Polar Bear weighs?”

“No.”

“Enough to break the ice.  (Offers out his hand)… “My name is Mikey.”

I fell for that one.  I thought it was hilarious and that boy got a genuine laugh.  Anyway!  Although I was one hundred percent flattered and entertained by the lame, “turn left/turn right” pick up line, I didn’t, at first, take him seriously as a human being at all.  Because of my curse, to my not so surprise, I discovered that he was the musician playing at the bar that night.  OF COURSE.  But that’s irrelevant.

Side note:  I understand that it’s incorrect to start a sentence with a conjunction, and I understand that I just did it twice, but sometimes it’s just necessary for effect.  Side note #2: I will admit that I just spent a solid two and a half minutes trying to decide if I should use “effect” or “affect” with that last sentence, but gave up and went with the most popular.

Back to the story.  Later, I was sitting at the bar, next to a fellow solo female bar patron.  She bought me a shot, which was incredibly sweet and “female bonding” of her.  Once I took my nose out of my magazine, and started being at least mildly social, I quickly realized that she was friends with the musician.  The one with the cheesy pick-up line.  Boy, do they have some history!  I loved their chemistry and weird relationship, which was put out on display for me as the night and conversation progressed between the three of us.  While I’d love to digress, and tell you about their doomed romance, instead, I’ll get to my point.

The point of this random musing is that this night, reminded me that EVERYONE, even the guy with the terrible pick-up line has something to offer if you just listen.  I believe his name was Jeremy?  Maybe?  So Jeremy, the guy who I originally didn’t take seriously as a human being, ended up saying something which I found to be relatively profound.  To paraphrase his drunken theory… he basically said that all it takes to save a relationship, or maintain a long-term relationship, is twenty minutes of undivided attention a day.  Whatever relationship in your life that is lacking, whether it’s a romantic relationship, a close friendship, a familial relationship… whatever.  Put aside twenty minutes of your day, to give that person all of yourself.  Leave your cell phone, your to-do list, the television remote and your insincerity, and listen.  Listen and talk with that person for a solid twenty minutes.  That’s all it takes, and it will take you far.

Jeremy seemed to relate this to a marriage.  He definitely is not married, but the way he was talking, I’m assuming that he was at one point.  Sadly, I think he made this “twenty-minute self-help” discovery too late.  I related this advice to my relationship with my Mother.  My Mom is a beautiful human, and if everyone had a little bit more of her in them, the world would be a better place.  I truly believe that.  However, she can be absolutely annoying at times, and for me, difficult to talk to and find common ground with.  But after contemplating Jeremy’s theory, I decided that if I simply take twenty minutes of my day, and put aside my differences with my mom and embrace her quirks, I think it could make a world of difference.  It could build our relationship, make it stronger and be overall beneficial for both of us.

So I dare all of you, to be still.  Be still, for only twenty minutes a day with the person in your life that you love, and care enough about to save a relationship with.    Advice from the drunken free-spirit musician at the bar.  To add to this….

Caitlin rule:  Give EVERYONE the time of day.  They may just surprise you.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 10

This is how pathetic I was last night… a prostitute had to help me get a cab.  Rewind, and let me start with what I do remember.

I went with a couple of people from work to the restaurant across the street where we always receive an endless flow of free booze and food.  To our pleasant surprise, it turned out to be one of the manager’s birthday who is a friend.  The champagne is opened.  More drinks and good conversation brings us to the next bar where I dance by myself like an asshole to the terrible live band playing bad 90’s hits.  Now there are six of us.

Next memory: skipping down Hollywood Boulevard arm and arm with Will, the birthday boy, like we’re in the fucking Wizard of Oz.  Who knows, we may have skipped right over Judy Garland’s star.

Next memory: strip club.  Now there are two of us.  Don’t know how that happened.  It’s only myself and Will, who I have never hung out with outside of visiting each others bar, watching high-end strippers bounce their ass up and down in a way that makes it look like it’s independent from the rest of their body.  I shyly threw some ones on the stage, looking like one of those timid kids at the petting zoo who is scared that the goat is going to bite her if she gets too close.

Next memory: standing on the sidewalk at God knows what-o’-clock, and now there is one.  I’m by myself in the middle of the night on a side street that is just off of Hollywood and Vine (an intersection you don’t want to find yourself alone at) with no purse and no car and wearing Will’s jacket.  Until this moment, I was having a great time.

Hollywood Boulevard and Vine Street

Obviously, my purse has my cell phone and all of my money and wallet in it.  When I could not find my car, a random woman who was also outside came to my rescue.  I barely remember her face, but I remember she made the executive decision that I needed a cab.  I don’t think I was using words at this point.  She called me a cab, and waited with me.  I really hope I was able to mumble a sincere thank you.

I now believe that everything happens for a reason, because THANK GOD we went to that strip club.  Inside of Will’s jacket pocket that I was wearing, there was $80 worth of ones.  This was the lifeline that got me home.  Don’t remember how I got into my house, because I didn’t have my keys.  Maybe I should check my windows to make sure that I didn’t fuck up at my break-in.  Woke up in the morning still in my clothes, look around me and see a bunch of one dollar bills strewn over my bed, I remember that I have no phone, car or wallet, and I literally started laughing out loud.  This was going to be a fun day.

I manage to get out of bed, and come up with a plan to get my life back together.  I grab the ones, and my little black address book, assuming I’ll need some numbers in a little bit, and walk my still drunk ass the 1.3 miles to the subway station.  I arrived back at my bar and found a co-worker who had Will’s number.  I was hoping that he would be able to provide me with either my purse or some answers.  Both if I was really lucky, but I was not betting on that.  We tried getting in touch with him, but no response.  I put some Bailey’s in my coffee to try to nurse the hang-over, and it definitely temporarily helped.  It’s disturbing how well I can function with a hangover.  Too much practice.

After hanging out for a couple of hours with some of the bar regulars, telling my story to everyone, I had them ALL interested in what the hell happened last night.  We needed clues.  We needed Will.  I didn’t even remember the names of the places we were at to try to call the establishments to see if they found my purse.  FINALLY he calls back with news.  He has my purse!  I am SO lucky.  I honestly thought it was gone for good.  I run over to his hotel bar to collect my things, and begin to exist as a real human being again.

Will had all the answers.  God bless him.  And how this guy ended up with my hot mess on his birthday… poor thing.

At the bar with the lame live music, Will and I apparently picked up some big dude that ended up being a weirdo, so that’s when everyone else left, leaving us with the giant, who we ditched by telling him we were taking a smoke break.  Will and I then went to the strip club, and after, I said I was driving home.  Like a kind gentleman, he talked me out of that ridiculous idea, and we apparently went back to the hotel he manages and the place where the night began, to chill for a bit and sober up.  He told me that we stumbled out to the back patio where we laid down for a bit while our cells rejuvenated, and huddled up together, trying to keep ourselves warm with the two jackets that we turned into makeshift blankets.  As he’s telling me this, I’m vaguely remembering laying with him and thinking it was oddly comfortable, but then it just goes black again.  We were such a pathetic scene, that the night watch guy brought us a big down comforter, and we were able to fall asleep for what I’m guessing was a couple of hours.

Now here is where things took a wrong turn.  Will says that I woke up, got up without saying anything, so he assumed I was going to the bathroom, and then I just never came back.  Leaving my purse and jacket behind and his jacket on.  I must have walked to where I thought my car was, forgetting that I had valeted that day, and this is where I meet the kind stranger who called me the cab.  Will was laughing his ass off when I told him that part, and I was like, “I can’t figure out what her deal was.  She must not have been homeless because she had a cell phone, but she was definitely just on the streets.”  He told me she was a prostitute.  Duh.

Living the dream, my friends.  One drink at a time.

P.S. I did all of this in heels and without throwing up.

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Love in the Time of Amenorrhea

We all know how much I despise discussing my menstrual cycle, but it is necessary to preface this entry with stating that I have not had my period in eight months.  This disorder is called, “Amenorrhea” and is common in girls my age.  It can be caused by many things, stress being one of them, which is the cause in my case.  I have not been taking care of myself, so my body is pissed off at me, and lashing out by not allowing me my period.  This may sound like a gift, but I promise it’s not, it’s really unhealthy.  Keeping all of that in mind, now let me move on to the story which correlates with this information.

My best friend Lance is in town visiting.  Since I left Florida over a year ago, I have only seen him one other time, when I went home for a wedding.  This has been hard on me because Lance is my better half.  I’m going to full on embrace the cheesiness and go as far as saying that he completes me.  I like myself when we’re together, we can talk about everything, and we always have so much fun.

He’s staying with some other friends of ours, but I decided to kidnap him for the night, bring him out with me and then have him crash at my place.  Best idea I’ve ever had.  We knock on the door of the wannabe speakeasy that I discussed in Confessions Vol. 8, and Adam, the door guy who I befriended during my last visit, opens the peek hole.  “I smell hair,” I say reluctantly, rolling my eyes at the ridiculous password.  “Do you?”  he says back, granting us access, and so the night begins.

Inside, there were two other patrons, a karaoke host, the door guy and the bartender.  That’s it.  So of course, because I’m with Lance, the two of us make it a great time. We kick off with our awful rendition of “Lola” by the Kinks.  One thing leads to another, and we’re pretty much best friends with the three staff members.  We were all buying each other shots, dancing, hooting and hollering and just having what was essentially our own private party.  Right about now, is when I don’t remember a good two hours of the night.  Lance filled me in a bit, and from the sounds of it, I was having a grand ole’ time.  We decided that the party was not over when the bar closed, so myself, Lance and the bartender, whose name I believe is Brian, decided to walk to a 24 hour Korean BBQ restaurant.

I proceeded to throw-up in the bathroom, which just needed to happen, and then continued with my evening.  Lance and Brian were making fun of me the whole night for it, but it didn’t bother me.  It was funny, and I owned it.

Caitlin Rule:  If you throw-up, own up.  It’s way more embarrassing to try to deny it when everyone knows it happened.

Lance and I began rapping a song that our friend made-up, with lyrics that say, “Bitch you better suck my dick / Now put your pussy in the air and get fucked.”  I think it’s hilarious, and hopefully everyone else in the restaurant did too… because we were loud.  I remember there being a whole fish, eyeball and all in front of me, so being the mature adult that I am, I plucked the eyeball out and put it in Lance’s soup.  Throughout all of this, Brian and I are exchanging physical flirtation.  Gently holding hands under the table… touching my leg… and so on, but thinking back, I have NO idea why, because I was a HOT MESS.  I’m pretty sure my hair looked like I had just been skydiving, and there may or may not have been a piece of vomit on my face… and I’m also pretty sure that Brian was sober.  Why in God’s name a very cool, sober guy with no agenda would want to be within ten feet of me that night, let alone hold my hand, is beyond me, but I’m not going to complain.

From there, we drove up to the Griffith Observatory, which is on top of Mount Hollywood, and has one of the best views of the city.  I flung my heels off and ran to the ledge, where I was met with a view that never gets old.  The city lights against the night sky.

Me and my heels at 4:00 in the morning, against the back drop of Los Angeles.

Sorry the picture is dark, but that’s why it’s the best look-out point, because it’s the Observatory, so there are no lights.

The three of us sat up there and talked, and this is when I finally started sobering up.  Lance disappeared to the other side for a while, so Brian and I had some one-on-one time, during such, I realized that he’s probably the most genuine guy I’ve met in Los Angeles.  He radiated this humbleness that is so rare out here because everyone has an agenda.  I can’t hate, because I’m the same way, we’re all out here for something.  Everything in LA is so fast-paced, that even human interactions are rushed.  But not this night… this night felt real.

The industrial sized sprinklers came on, and after our pretty bonding session, I grabbed Brian’s hand and we ran together through the sprinklers.  Surprisingly, he didn’t object or hesitate at all, and completely went with it.  Without even thinking, I turned around, dripping in reclaimed water, and kissed him.  Again, he went with it.  It only lasted for a second, but became one of my favorite kisses ever because of the innocence behind it.

Lance and I then ran through the sprinklers together, as Brian sat on the sidewalk, waiting with my heels and anklet ready for me.  Perfect way to end the night, running through sprinklers with your best friend just before the dawn.  We drove Brian home, and part of me wants to seek him out again, but the other part of me wants never to see him again, because I don’t know if it will ever be as perfect.

Lance and I passed out on my bed, and the next day, I got my period.  I don’t think this can be brushed off as a coincidence.  Being with Lance again made me remember who I am.  Being with him and a stranger, letting the night take us all for a ride made me feel alive and all of my stress was alleviated, even if only for a short time.  So maybe the cure for Amenorrhea is simply a single dose of love.

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Confessions of a Heedless Sinner – Vol. 8

The night started with, “I’m on a spending freeze.”  The night ended at 5:00am on Hollywood Boulevard with a new tattoo.

I wasn’t suppose to be spending anymore money this week.  However, one of my favorite people in Los Angeles, my new friend Josh, asked if I wanted to get a drink.  Who am I kidding?  Yes, yes I do.  It was fine because we went to this dive in my hood where you can get cocktails for $3.50 which is unheard of in Los Angeles.  Excuse me while I give a shout out to the establishment… Frank n’ Hanks!  Yay!  Anyway, whiskey* and conversations about home, (funny we grew up in the same place but met out here) turned into a beautiful bonding session.

Next stop, R Bar.  Money?  What’s that?  The multiple $3.50 cocktails made me forget.

R Bar is this wannabe speakeasy.  I say “wannabe” because I don’t think you can call yourself a speakeasy if you advertise the password on your facebook page.  The password was, “Let my Cameron go!”  I don’t know what this means, but whatever.  It was great inside, and they had this 1920’s theme going on.  The good vibe atmosphere enhanced our good vibe exchange, and next thing you know, we’re in Josh’s car, driving toward Hollywood at 2:00am looking for the first neon sign we see reading, “tattoos.”  Found.  On Hollywood Boulevard of course.  Now may be the appropriate time to add that it was Friday the 13th.

During the drive is when we decided on what we were going to get tattooed.  Using his iPhone, he google imaged some things using keywords appropriate to the night.  1920’s… prohibition… speakeasy…. I don’t know, I was drunk.  The winning search term was, “1920’s flapper cartoon,” and this was what we got:

We named her Cameron.  Remember the password?  *wink*

Inside the tattoo parlor was a man named Steve-O.  Beer belly + missing teeth + stoned + tattoo gun = Steve-O.  Basically, he had all of the criteria to make this night everything it was meant to be.

We had to wait for a good hour before it was our turn, so we definitely sobered up.  I turned to Josh laughing, and asked if he was sure, if this was really happening.  He simply looked at me, gently shrugged his shoulders and said, “I’m not scared.”  It was the phrase that made the night.  Those simple words made everything make sense.  Now, we both have this tattoo on our arm that to me, essentially represents not being scared.  Being young and having fun and friendship.  I love it.

We didn’t leave the tattoo shop until 5:00am.

…And it started as such a low-key night.

*new cocktail recipe: “Bitter Diviner” – Jameson, a splash of tonic and orange bitters.  Do it.

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