How perfect.
I woke up there Sunday morning alone in a strange bed. My mouth felt like I had shotgunned a few pints of sand. It was approximately 6:47 a.m.
Funny, my body. There is a constant battle waging between Sober Scott and Drunk Scott. Clearly, Drunk Scott won the night before. But Sober Scott got a few good tactical shots in by waking me up at that fucking hour. Fuck Sober Scott, we'll see what happens this weekend, bitch. (Ahhhhh, and I have a wedding to go to. Suck it, Sober.)
Anyway. I was wearing only my boxers and since I blacked out the night before I had no idea where I left my clothes. I went down the hall into Heather's room. She was awake. I guess Sober Heather was fucking with Drunk Heather too.
"Do you know where my clothes are," I asked her quietly so I didn't wake the other three people crashing on the bunk beds.
She pointed down. Sure enough.
"Do you know how I got into that bed," I asked.
"Nope," she said. "You went to go to the bathroom and never came back."
That sounds about right.
Dressed and completely fucking hungover I needed food. On the walk to breakfast Heather delighted in reminding me of all the things I forgot I did the night before. During mornings like these I feel like that character from the movie Memento. Before we left for breakfast I saw some gold beads sitting on the counter and they vaguely reminded me of a woman at the bar who was walking around with Assless Chaps Guy. Apparently she gave me beads. That kiiiiind of sparked a half-second memory. Then the memory disapperared like a fart in a hurricane.
Most stories she told me were followed by me saying, quite simply, "Oh, did I?"
On Saturday, Shortcake and I had gone down there to visit a college friend of her's she hadn't seen in a year. We pulled in after driving five fucking hours and were welcomed to a house that is built to sleep, comfortablty, about five people. However, throw double bunk-beds in all three rooms -- AND the living room -- and buy a few inflate-a-beds and all of a sudden it can sleep up to 40 drunk asses. It helps that no one really gives a shit where they sleep whilst wasted.
By 6 p.m. I was working on my 10th flat keg beer when about a dozen of us left for jam session at Bottle & Cork, a bad-ass bar that bills itself as such. After rocking out and drinking beer after beer after beer -- shit they were giving them away from the stage at some points -- slurping down three generous $2 jello shots and assorted other drinks I was well on my way to Shirtless-David Hasselhoff-eating-a-cheesburger-while-my-daughter-films-me-slurring-my-words drunk.
It was, oh, about 8:30 in the evening.
Shortcake, Jenny from the Beach, Heather and I all decided to go back to the house, regroup, and hit some more bars. Heather and I, however, let the other two wander ahead. And, somehow, as we passed The Starboard we decided that we didn't want to wait for the next drink. So, we duck into the bar and Heather decides that, not only do I not appear drunk enough, but I need to drink a Special.
The Special: An awful lot of champagne, a shot of raspberry and orange flavored vodka, Red Bull, and a splash of orange juice and cranberry juice. Mostly champagne.
And it made me mostly retarded.
The last clear memory I have is looking down at the straw. Next thing I know I woke up in the strange bed. I think I drank three. At least that's what Heather told me the next day.
This is already too fucking long. But on Sunday the four of us returned to The Starboard at about noon (Heather and I had been there earlier that morning for their make-your-own Bloody Mary bar.) The place was FUCKING PACKED. At Noon. Awesome.
The bartender reminded me of the night before, when I apparently spilled a drink all over the place.
"Oh, did I?"
I drank about four more Specials in an hour before we had to leave to get back to DC to make Shortcake's flight. Then I drunk dialed my sister at 1 p.m. and passed out on the way back to The District.
I'm just starting to recover now.
I love Dewey.
(Oh I forgot! -- During drinking time on Sunday we were standing at a table, well, drinking when Heather taps me on the shoulder and points to a woman behind me. "She just showed her tits. You missed it." By the way, Heather is fucking cool. So I say, "Hey, woman, I missed it." And Heather is all like, "Yea, show 'em again." And woman says "No, maybe later." But then all of a sudden a few seconds later we were playing the "How Old Do You Think I Am?" Game and before she had the chance to answer I said, quite earnestly, that I was in fact 43. I'm 29. Woman was like, "No way," and I was like, "Yea, it's true." And Heather went right along with it. Woman was like, "You look amazing for 43." Thanks.)
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