Jun
29
2011

The Drunkest I’ve Ever Been: Best dormie ever

—Josey

The story of the drunkest I’ve ever been is more depressing than funny. Same with the second drunkest, and the third. And maybe more than that. I’d rather not leave you feeling halfway dead inside, so I’ll tell you a different story: Let’s call it the approximately ninth to twelfth drunkest I’ve ever been.

It was spring semester of my freshman year in college in Manhattan and I was in a long distance relationship. What this means is that I spent an inordinate amount of time on the phone. My story starts with such a call, one weekend night when two friends and I had plans to venture to a goth club. They pre-gamed vodka and 40s for an hour or more while I told someone 3,000 miles away it was their turn to hang up first. When I emerged, it was time to leave, and the last thing I remember is proclaiming that I “needed to catch up,” and raising a mug brimming with cheap vodka to my lips.

When I came to, 12 hours later, I was in my bed, wearing my goth clothes from the night before, covered in crumbs and crumpled slices of potato bread. It was 11am. An empty bucket was perched next to my pillow and the windowsill was littered with several glasses of water in different states of fullness. “What, uh, happened last night?” I yelled across at my dozing roommate. “Ask me later.” She mumbled.

I made it to the goth club—just not through the front doors. Unable to stand and propped between two friends, the bouncer suggested they get me some food and come back later. “But I’m 18!” I insisted.
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Oct
20
2010

Food for Drunks: Clam chowder

—Josey

Once upon a teenage year, I lived and schooled in New York City. I had a bad attitude with musical taste to match, and could cook nothing well except bagels and cream cheese, and the occasionally inspired Top Ramen with egg. One spring weekend I hosted an out of town Enthusiast. The first stop on the BlackOut Express was supposed to be a goth club, so we ripped holes in black stockings and smeared the crap out of our eyeliner. I don’t know why, but we never ended up at any clubs that night, let alone goth ones. This was awesome because it meant we stumbled to various, snobby college parties dressed like complete tools for no justified reason. The night ended as all successful weekend-visitor kick-off binges do, with sunrise-purchased 40s cracked open on a curb near my apartment. As we swigged, a waterfront fun run sweat past in the rising dawn, and I think we might have cheered a little, our angsty makeup and bottle-shaped brown bags betraying the illusion we were early-rising race fans.

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