Everything is wrong with me
Monday, July 12, 2004
 
return to normality
After a much needed break, it's good to be back.

Well, not really - I just thought that'd be a nice thing to say.

I hate writing about things like vacations, because so much happened, but a) I'm really lazy, and b) I don't want to bore you to tears by writing, "On Friday...On Saturday...On Sunday..." So here's my best effort at a summary, but, as I know all too well, my best is rarely good enough:

When does a vacation stop being a vacation and turn instead into a weeklong hangover, replete with bouts of drunkenness, depression, insomnia, and over-eating? I need to know, because I think my vacation was more the latter than the former.

It started off well enough. Last Friday, 7/2, we had a group goodbye party for a bunch of co-workers who were leaving the firm. At around midnight I pulled the classic escape. This happens when I'm too drunk to keep my eyes open or properly work my fly, and I need to leave asap. I'll take out my cell phone, and head outside after to saying to someone, "I'm going to make a call." Fifteen minutes later, I'm either at my local pizza place tackling a pepperoni/sausage slice or trying in vain to give myself some hand relief at my roommate Ben's porno-licious computer.

Despite a crippling hangover, I managed to make it down to Philly on Saturday. Being in Philly means two things to me: pot and food. And in that order. Knowing this, I weighed myself before vacation and again after to see the difference, and I gained seven pounds on vacation. Seven - not too shabby. Fortunately, as I am borderline morbidly obese anyway, you can't really tell. So bring on the Krispy Kremes and whole milk!

Anyway, I stayed in Philly only one night and headed down the shore on Sunday (did I not say that I wouldn't do this day-by-day? wtf?). As I mentioned, my aunt was very gracious and let me crash at her place. How do I repay her hospitality? The only way I know how - by getting drunk and trying to crawl in bed with her at 5am. Let me explain.

Number one, I sleep-walk when I drink. This is especially true if I am in an unfamiliar place.

Number two, I was really, really fucked up. There's this drink down the shore called the Tullynut - one of those foo-foo fruity drinks, but this mother contains five different rums. Tullynuts are way too sweet for me, but after two, they taste just fine. Usually, you have one or two of these before heading to the other bars. My buddy Dave and I had four each. By 10:30pm.

A little later on in the night, we thought it'd be a good idea to get a shot each time we got a beer. Sure, in retrospect, it doesn't sound like that good of an idea, but at the time, it was all we had. So screw you for judging us.

By the time the bars closed at 3am, I was a zombie. I was so drunk that I couldn't even eat. That, my friends, is the true test of drunkenness. If I am so drunk that I can't eat, someone should call the paramedics and the Sex Crimes Unit and tell them to be ready, because something bad is going to happen.

When I woke up the next morning, I saw that I was in the proper bed, my crotch was dry, and it appeared that I didn't do anything stupid. When I went downstairs, I was asked the dreaded question by my aunt: "Do you know what you did last night?"

Apparently, at about 5am, I came into her bedroom, said, "Hey there", and tried to get in bed. My aunt, who, thankfully, was a great sense of humor and knows I'm a drunk, was like, "Jase, get in your own bed!" Upon hearing this, I went back to where I was supposed to sleep.

Before we delve into my subliminal Oedipal-esque urges, I know that this is just a result of drinking. Also, the set up of the house is very weird, leading me to believe that I probably would have made the same mistake even if I were sober (well, that last part's not entirely true). But at any rate, it was just more fodder for my family of ball-busters to make fun of me.

The rest of the week I spent dividing my time between the beach, the local diners, and the bars. Sunburns, cheesesteaks, and booze - is there any better way to spend your vacation? That is, is there any way to spend your vacation legally? Of course, I'd rather have been in Honduras with a few local underage girls, a bunch of hand guns, and a mountain of pure cocaine, but this was the best I could do on such short notice.

The vacation came to an end with a bang this past Saturday with the bachelor party of my buddy John, who is marrying my cousin in a month.

Since the bride-to-be reads this site, here's what happened at the bachelor party:

We all arrived at the drinking establishment in fine form and in our Sunday best, and we definitely didn't all get high right away. Our buddy Mike offered a toast to John, but he interjected, and spoke at length (about thirty minutes) about the love he has for my cousin. Then we didn't get high again.

The bus which was to take us to Atlantic City arrived and we were only slightly perturbed to learn that it didn't have a bathroom. I say "slightly" because we were only drinking moderately, and it didn't come to pass that on several occasions I had to pee in a Gatorade bottle, thus spilling the pee all over my pants and hands. Had we been drinking heavily this might have happened, but since I only had two beers all night, it wasn't a problem.

Although Atlantic City is known for its casinos and a nudey clubs, we didn't go to either. Instead, we found a local church and spoke to the pastor about love and the sanctity of marriage. Under his guidance, we learned much about this holiest of sacraments.

[For clarification, when I say "church", I don't mean "strip club." And when I say "pastor", I don't see how anyone could construe that to mean "exotic dancer." And when I say "love" and "marriage", I don't mean "full nudity" and "extremely large fake breasts" - that wouldn't even make sense. And when I say, "we learned much about this holiest of sacraments", I certainly don't mean "I got four lap dances in a row and spent a whopping $380 in an hour." So there.]

At the end of the night, we climbed back aboard the bus and headed back to Philly, most of us falling asleep after the long, fun, and safe night - certainly not because we got in a fight with Puerto Ricans and got beat up pretty bad. Those bruises on my forearms and upper arms are NOT the result of being thumped by a policeman's club. There are from rough-housing with the children at the orphanage we visited while in AC, and, as I am anemic, I bruise easily.

All in all, it was a wonderful occasion, and I look forward to the wedding next month in the Bahamas, where I will be on my best behavior among friends and family on such a special occasion.

And that was my vacation (mostly). I'm already starting to plan another one. Two words: Oktoberfest 2004. Who's with me?



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