The shitshow otherwise known as George Street Festival began on Friday for me, with a barbecue, and the bottle of red wine I brought back from France. I was hammered before 11, and then stumbled back to my apartment to join Chef and his buddies.
My house was packed. I went to my bedroom and there was a gaggle of pretty, strange girls clustered around my bed. Apparently they rented the house before us. Anyway, my wallet was left out on my bed and all my worldly possessions were on display, so I kicked them out. Plus I was trying to pick up Chef’s friend and they were interfering.
When we got downtown, the night became a blur. I ordered shot after shot after shot, and Chef’s friend (let’s call him Captain) informed me the next day that he had replaced my jager with Coke. I was the butt of their jokes for the rest of the weekend.
Walking home, I left my shoes on the ground and deserted them, so Captain had to run back to claim them. When I looked up, CBMan (another friend) had hauled off his shirt and was swinging it around his head. Apparently, for no reason at all, he had screamed: “I HATE THIS SHIRT!” in the process, then stripped down to his pants. Well, the boys couldn’t let him go it alone, so they joined him. I missed this part, but apparently CBMan pulled out his wang and started waving it around like a helicopter at the top of the stairs. I bet my neighbours hate me.
Saturday morning, I didn’t remember a thing. I collapsed on the couch clutching my stomach. However, the day ended up being my favourite day of all. After cooking an unbelievably wonderful breakfast and discussing the history of Newfoundland and Labrador, we decided to find a swimming hole in Flatrock. Who woulda thunk it, there are no flat rocks in Flatrock. We went diving off 20 feet cliffs into water holes below. Or at least the boys did…TOR and I waded around a shallow section, while she freaked out about “water snakes.”
The best part was when I backtracked through the trail to meet up with a big group of friends who were trying to find their way to the swimming place. I stumbled out of the trail and onto the clearing, clutching branches and trees to keep myself standing, and met the gang coming through.
“Holy shit!” said one. “A ginger!”
The boys and I decided to head to Middle Cove Beach, where giant swells of waves pummelled the beach and tourists took turns taking pictures because nobody in their right minds would enter the Atlantic. Except my friends. I watched them get tossed around like rag-dolls, everyone was having a good time. And then they kept drifting further and further out. And we stopped laughing. Eventually they made it back to shore, stumbling across the beach in disorientation.
We headed out for supper on the Sundance Sundeck after that ordeal. I remember it as being one of the most perfectly happy moments of my life, sitting around reminiscing about drunken memories. And I was just in the mood to get absolutely hammered. The boys bought Chef a girlie drink to celebrate his failed attempts at getting laid all weekend, while we all downed shots of Jagerbombs.
The plan was to go the strip bar. I adamantly refused to go, considering my first experience caused me to walk home alone, drunk and sobbing my eyes out. But after the Jagerbomb, I said, “Ok, I’ll go out. But if anyone tries to buy me a lapdance, I will seriously get up and leave.”
Three hours later, I was trying to buy a lapdance from a hot blonde wearing black lingerie.
We literally ordered more shots than I have ever seen in my life. At one point the waitress expressed concern for our well-being, as we had to down our shots so the staff could keep reusing the glasses to keep up with our orders.
I had a very touching conversation with the boys. They suggested I should strip, then went on to discuss my various body parts in a very complimentary fashion. I remember being flattered beyond belief. Then Chef said, “Yeah, I can’t stop staring at your tits glowing through your bra.” I looked down to discover that my white shirt had been glowing through my shirt the entire time, and indeed my chest was on display.
We left and went to Whiskey, then Dusk. The boys ran off to try to help Chef hook up, and so I befriended some men at the bar. I introduced myself as Shiniquia O’Neal, a stripper from the Cotton Club. It worked like a charm, they were feeding me drinks. Later, when we walked home, we paused for at least 30 minutes so Chef could vomit over the side of the stairwell, while I whipped out my phone and danced around.
The greatest part of this story is that I remember every damn thing from that night, and they don’t have a clue what happened. I am INVINCIBLE.