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My weekend was so ridiculous that I actually don’t know how to start this entry. But wait a second, I just started. How terribly clever of me. I’m actually sitting here in a state of confusion mixed with bewilderment and awe, because I’d like to know how I’m not in a fucking coma right now.

So I went out Friday night. I don’t fucking know why I bother making plans to stay in, because they never, ever happen. I did, however, master the art of Drinking Without Getting Shittered. I got up at 8:30 in the morning and was feeling ok. Checked out Band-Aid’s housewarming party, Bob stepped on a slug and nearly lost her mind, etc. Also, being downtown while sober is probably the worst idea.

Apparently I have sausage on the brain.

Apparently I have sausage on the brain.

Saturday, I immediately resumed my Let’s-Get-Hammered stance. Ray was back in town, so she and Jagerbomb were counting on me. I did it for them. We had drinks at the house and then headed to Trapper John’s to see Greener perform. That’s when I got Candice-Drunk, a special level of drunkness where I become so vapid and empty-headed that my eyes literally glaze over and I stare through your soul. You can shake me, scream at me, but chances are I will not be able to comprehend your words. I will grin foolishly and perhaps try to kiss you instead.

My classy friend shows up with his booze in a garbage bag.

My classy friend shows up with his booze in a garbage bag.

Anyway, I started off the night by hitting on one of Chef’s friends, whom I’ve hit on several times before but I always run away from him for no reason whatsoever besides the fact I’m a jerk. Then I hit on his other friend, who’s fairly hot, and things were going well until I get distracted by another guy at the bar.


I thought this guy was rather attractive too, but Chef later informed me that he looked like his parents were related. We exchanged numbers anyway, made plans to see a movie. Then I left the bar and five minutes later, he called me. I don’t remember what was said, but when I awoke the next morning, I had two missed calls from him.

Here’s a word of advice: if you’re trying to pick up a commitment-phobic redhead, don’t call her three times after immediately meeting her. Common sense? No?

Stolen shot. Shhh.

Stolen shot. Shhh.

The next morning I woke up to discover myself still absolutely shittered. Actually, I woke up on the futon with Chef’s blazer draped over me, which doesn’t make any sense because I had climbed into my bed upstairs and then moved downstairs…? I drunk sleep walk, by the way. It’s terrifying. I texted Chef to come rub my tummy. We decided “Hey, let’s get drunk!” And so we poured up a vodka drink to drink with our breakfast. He cooked while I cleaned, and we both drank beers. Cleaning up after a party is significantly easier when already intoxicated.

The remainder of the evening was spent watching movies, listening to Benny Benassi, and polishing off all the leftover party beers, a bottle of red wine, and dipping into a 40 ouncer of vodka. We called people and left them drunken voicemails. I think we might have actually watched porn, but then I don’t remember because I blacked out.

This video was taken at 2 p.m.

And since I can’t fucking figure out how to post a video, just click this bloody link.

In other news, J-Nurse and I are patenting an idea for a Jackass Detector. It’ll come in pretty colours and you can wear it on your wrist. When it senses a Jackass (arrogant, smooth-talking, shot-buying, too much cologne, etc.), it’ll deliver a painful electric volt to your vagina. I figure I’ll be zapped to death before I make it downtown.

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