After hugging the toilet bowl for three hours today, lying in bed moaning in agony until 2 p.m., and generally accomplishing nothing other than eating an entire tub of Smarties ice-cream, I’ve called it quits. I am too old for this shit.
When did I become unable to drink like a normal person? When did I blur the lines between “having a casual beer” and “getting super-smashed-face loaded”?
I have been suffering with the flu for the past week or so, but decided to go out on Friday night because I hadn’t seen some friends since before France. We went to The Ship (which I despise more than the taste of stomach acid) to see the Tom Fun Orchestra: a nine-member band from Cape Breton. The band was actually really good… the only people equally patriotic to Newfoundlanders are Cape Bretoners, so the whole atmosphere was super upbeat and fun. Unfortunately, I was tired and not into dancing, what with coughing up phlegm and all. I mostly hung back and creeped on my cute new co-worker, who obviously did not recognize me. He was hanging out with a girl who was greasier than a Big Mac.
Saturday, my friends decided to have an all-day drink-a-thon. This is what happens when the sun decides to shine in Newfoundland: everyone is filled with peace and love and happiness and a need to get absolutely hammered. So TOR and I tanned on the back deck all afternoon while the boys dragged out the kitchen table and played Risk for hours on the grass.
Then everyone showed up to have a barbecue, and before 9 we had a full-blown, raging party. We smoked hookah, made a mess and headed downtown to see Greener’s band perform. I did not make out with anyone, not even the beautiful Indian boy who appeared at my house smartly dressed and flashing pearly white teeth. Another guy told me he thought it was intimidating that I’m a technical writer, but he was an engineer. Really?! I write about YOUR crap. Because my crap isn’t nearly as interesting. Maybe this is why boys don’t like me. Because I have a career?
Alright, back on the healthy track tomorrow, because this is getting out of hand.
I miss my daddy. I miss his barbecues, his paintings, his stories. I miss sharing a drink with him at 11 p.m. when everyone else is in bed. I love that he built our house and nearly everything we own. I love that he keeps sending me money even though I’m obviously completely careless and frivolous. I love that he’s a woodsman who would rather live in a cabin, in the middle of the forest, alone, than ever live in a city. I need to get home.