Mr. Smith Goes to Wall-shington

Well, I hope y'all had a good Thanksgiving. I'm doing okay, just literally laying in pain, recovering from "my week of eating", as I've been oh-so playfully referring to this disgusting week of shame. Seriously, I've been majorly taking advantage of the fact that unlike the fridge at my apartment, my parents' fridge is always stuffed full of food. Delicious food that will make me fat again. And for the first time in my memory, this Thanksgiving I ate so much that I had to go lie down because I felt like I was going to be sick.

Classy.

Speaking of classy - TRANSITION ALERT! - I believe last week I promised that I was going to share a story of drunken embarrassment? One that would hopefully be unlike any you'd ever heard - one with major photo evidence? Well I was lying. Peace out, homies!

I'm just kidding. Let's do this.

While we just celebrated Thanksgiving, there are other national holidays that need tending to as well.* One of those is Fourth of July. It's not a particularly notable one, as far as holidays go. It's not as fun or sexy as Halloween, and it lacks the nostalgic, magical feeling of the winter holidays. But, I mean, it's not as bad as, say, Memorial Day. Like, bummer much?

*I am just NAILING these transitions! CRUSHING IT.

But I suppose there's something to be said for being able to take a time out and enjoy a nice summer day with your friends. And enjoy it I did, a couple years ago. My friend Andrew graciously invited the gang to the apartment he was renting for the summer at his University.* What he neglected to mention, however, was that his little place had no air conditioning. In July. With like thirty people inside. Of course, there wasn't actually anything he could've done about this, but it was one of those things that we all decided to get half-faux upset about anyway. "Did you know he doesn't have air conditioning?" "No, he didn't say anything!" "He's RIDICULOUS." The bottom line is that everyone was sweaty to begin with, so combined with the copious drinking that is a staple of the holiday, the yield was SWEATY SWEAT MONSTERS.

*And when I say 'his university', I of course mean the one that he OWNS.

Look at how these pretty people glisten. You can practically smell them from here. 

Sweaty sweat monsters was the technical term that night. By that I mean that one person shouted "SWEATY SWEAT MONSTERS!" and then everyone else was shouting that the rest of the night. So now that I've set the hot, crowded scene, let's get to the point. I know you're dying to. As established, while I'm not much of a drinker, when I do drink, four different possible personalities emerge. One of those fellas was named Smith. Let's look back at my description of him, shall we? 

"Smith lives life pretty hardcore. Not really, but Smith doesn't like the idea that he's perceived as boring - he HATES the idea that he's predictable. So he wants to shock or surprise people by doing things you'd never expect. He's a rebel, man! He likes playing games that involve dares because SMITH FREAKING LOVES DARES."

So now that we've got the scene set and the personality established, here's what happened. Smith and several of his pals were sitting in the skinny little hallway of the apartment, chatting. One of Smith's friends said to him, "I bet you can't climb up this wall using just your back and your legs." "IS THAT A DARE?" Smith asked. "No, it's just a suggestion." Said the friend. Smith was PRETTY FUCKIN' SURE IT WAS A DARE, AND SMITH LOVES DARES. "You totally don't think I'll do it, do you??? Well guess what, I'll totally do it." And so he did, shimmying up the wall until he could touch the ceiling. He sat up there, legs stretched over the hall like a little bridge that people walked under. Occasionally people at the party would look down the hall, confused as to how he got up there or what he was doing, and Smith would be like, "Yeah I climbed up the wall, so what?" After sitting comfortably for quite a while, Smith suddenly felt a little push. Just a tiny thing, a slight lurch backwards. He was confident it was nothing, but decided to get down and check. When he turned to look at the wall, this is what he saw:

YOU GUYS, I PUT MY ASS THROUGH THE WALL. My ass made a hole in the wall. A literal asshole. I made an asshole in the wall. It's ass-shaped. And yeah Smith did it but SMITH IS ALSO ME.

Let's take a look at a side view

I was horrified. Smith had fled the scene of the crime, and it was just me standing there left holding the bag. I actually know exactly what my face looked like, because someone was thoughtful enough to snap a photo:

See, look how bad I feel! Also, note: long hair and sweat do not mix. Lesson learned, keep it short in the summer. Also how white are my teeth?

If you're asking how Andrew - whose wall I had ruined - reacted, there's even a photo of that too!

...mostly with exhaustion. Also note how high up on the wall it is and be impressed.

Everyone who wasn't me or Andrew enjoyed the sheer ridiculousness of the fact that I had left an ass-print on the wall and loved walking by it for the rest of the party. To make me feel better - I feel guilty for things I don't do, so when I actually do something wrong it ain't pretty - we came up with other, less damning backstories for how it had gotten there. Like someone who had planned on putting their butt in cement, but wanted to do a test run. Or a thief who robbed apartments and always left his signature calling card - his ass-print. The cops would have to make suspects put their butt into the hole to see if it fit, like a way less romantic or child-appropriate version of Cinderella and her slipper.

And yes, I had to pay to fix the wall. I was employed and making good money (unlike now), so it wasn't so bad. And now I have a great story - now at parties, as a joke, if someone fake-makes me mad, I'll back my butt up to the wall and yell like I'm a hostage-taker, "I'll do it! I'll put my ass right through this wall!" I just love the idea of being pissed at someone and yelling, "screw you!", then immediately ramming your rump through their wall and being like, "I'll be leaving now - enjoy your asshole, asshole!"

It is my dream that someone somewhere will do this. If anyone out there in the internet can do this and prove that they did this, I will pay you 5,000 dollars.*

*Prize money to be distributed at the writer's discretion - in this case over the course of the writer's entire lifetime.

A Halloween Bacchanal

DISCLAIMER: This true story is just a lil' bit graphic. Graphic for my life, at least. Maybe for you it's totally normal YA FREAKS! Anyway, if it's going to be awkward for you to read this story coming from me than I suggest you turn away now. This means you, mom. And mom's friends who compose roughly 90% of my readership.

If you're still with me after the disclaimer, get ready for a doozy. In honor of Halloween, I present to you the true story of the grossest Halloween experience I've ever had. For some of you, this is mild, I'm sure. But for me - who lest we forget, is not exactly the hard-partying type - this was pretty nasty.

Let's take a journey, shall we? The year was 1892* 2010, and I was living in an apartment with three other dudes. I had transferred colleges and been roomed randomly with strangers - we got along totally fine, though we never hung out outside of the apartment. One of my roommates was named Ham. Ham was not his real name, but to explain why I'm giving him the code name Ham would reveal his identity. He was a perfectly nice guy - dressed well**, wore his hair all nice, in good shape - much preppier than I am, though there's nothing wrong with that, I'm just trying to create a comparison here, jeez.

*Flowhs, flowhs fo' sale!
**Though once, right after I moved in, he looked through my closet, spotted the single brightly-colored paisley button-up shirt I own (I almost exclusively wear muted tones) and went, "What is this?" with a tone that suggested his eyes hurt from being accosted by such a garish garment. "Just for fun!" I chuckled, just wanting to be liked.

That year on Halloween I came home relatively early for the holiday - let's say one or two in the morning. I'm in my room, typing a Facebook message to a friend in Africa when I suddenly hear a commotion outside of my door. "Just lay him on the couch, get him over here, set him down" I hear the voices saying. Hush, I think, I'm writing over here. I deduce based on the fact that I don't recognize any of the voices that Ham is the one these people are trying to lay down. Then I hear pounding on my other roommate Kenny's door, followed by his voice joining the fray. The whole thing is greatly disturbing my concentration. Then the conversation really ratchets up a couple notches - overheard lines include: "Can you just stand him up for me? Walk with me to the bathroom. That is disgusting. It's all over him! Oh god, he puked everywhere. Could you guys stop having sex? I'm getting less hard!" that last exclamation delivered in an Australian accent.

Yeah, uh, I think it's time to figure out what the hell is going on in my apartment. It's my obligation, really. I exit my room, pretending to be awoken by the kerfuffle. My roommate Kenny is sitting on a stool at the island in the center of the apartment, and Ham and his friend (who I later learn is named Jordan) are in the bathroom, where Ham is relieving himself of the contents of his stomach. By puking. Kenny looks really amused by not annoyed - he's a very relaxed guy.* He casually points out to me that there's puke all over the floor and on our couch. This is when I begin to feel nauseous; I smell it. I hustle over to Jordan, asking if there's anything I can do to help. He says not really, but he warns me that two people are having sex in my bathroom (there were two bathrooms, one Ham and Kenny shared and the other that me and the fourth roommate shared). "Are you joking?" I ask. Nope. Jordan crosses the apartment to my bathroom, knocks and the door and with the pleading tone of a little kid being picked on, is like, "Come on, guys, he's really sick! Stop having sex!" I too would also like them to stop since they're in MY BATHROOM. It is at this point that Ham stumbles out of the bathroom. "Hey bud" I say. "Hi Jeremy" he says back. I make a mental note to remind him forever to call me Jeremy.

*Kenny was so chill; one time, I brought a group of MY friends back to the apartment after going out, and I found out the next morning that one of my ladyfriends drunkenly and mistakenly got up to use the bathroom and went back to the wrong room and got into bed with him. Horrified and embarrassed, the next day she decided she had to apologize to him even though we were all sure he'd slept through it and had no clue. "Hey Kenny, did you know I got into bed with you last night?" she asked. "No, no I didn't" he said with a sideways smile and the relaxed cadence of a surfer bro. "I'm really sorry." "It's totally cool."

The two lovers exit my bathroom. Oz and Shania (not their real names, natch) protest they weren't having sex. Nobody believes them. Oz - named for his Australian accent - says to me, "Oh, you're the other roommate? I've visited three times and you're never here" in a very accusatory tone. First, I think, uh-oh am I antisocial but then I'm like, UH there's bigger fish to fry here, Oz. The gruesome twosome then go into Ham's room and shut the door. As the universe collectively rolled its eyes, Ham stumbles over to the couch, and Jordan goes "NO NO NO DON'T SIT-" but it's too late, and Ham has sat in his own puke. Awesome. Jordan is a actually a very nice friend, constantly talking to Ham, reassuring and helping him. Kenny and I, however... well, Kenny is sitting at the counter eating spaghetti* and I'm awkward. I feel as though I should help, so I plug my nose and lay some paper towels over the mess. Jordan, clearly exhausted and overworked, is on the phone with a friend saying that he's never seen Ham like this. He also uses the word fag a bunch. I suddenly like him less. Somehow we have a bucket** and we give it to Ham, and the three sober people take a breather and are chatting in the kitchen when I see Ham hurl again, completely not even close to the bucket, just onto the ground.*** Sickened, I start spraying Febreeze like a maniac when we hear moaning coming from Ham's room.  Yep - moaning. "Oh my god you guys, Ham is puking and you guys are still having sex!" Jordan yells. "I only gave them one condom", says Kenny. "I guess they're going green", says I.

*One of my friend Jenna's favorite anecdotes from my time in this apartment is that one time, we were hanging out watching TV when Ham joined us with his dinner plate. The dinner he had prepared for himself? Spaghetti with chicken nuggets on top. "Not a meal!" Jenna said to me, invoking our favorite phrase, "not a thing".
**Bizarrely, this is only my SECOND-best story that involves buckets appearing from nowhere. No joke. I'll save that one for later...
***Thankfully it was mostly water. Also EW.

Ham is talking but nothing he's saying makes any sense, like word salad. It's like he's trying to communicate but what he means isn't what's coming out of his mouth. He's still heaving a little. Oz and Shania exit the bedroom, Oz wearing only Ham's blanket. We explain to them that Ham is still throwing up. "Oh, that's not good" is their sentiment. "UM YEAH" says our collective thought-bubble. Jordan is mad at them for sexing while Ham was so sick. "We were just making out", says Shania. I worry for Shania - I think someone needs to explain to her that making out doesn't usually involve condoms. "Are you naked under there?" Jordan asks Oz. "I like to sleep naked" he says, and while 98% percent of me thinks, "oh yeah, I'm sure, that's why you're naked", 2% of me is like, "maybe it's an Australian thing". And then, as if putting the cherry on top of this ludicrous night, Oz turns around, drops the blanket, and flashes everyone his ass. Hooray. Oz decides Ham should be moved to the bathroom. Shania and I discuss whether Ham will pay to have the carpets steam-cleaned. And then Oz and Shania go back into HAM'S ROOM to sleep in his bed. SUCH AWESOME FRIENDS they are! Truly selfless.

At a loss as to what to do further, I try to convince Ham to lie down in the bathroom, but he doesn't want to. Me, Kenny, and Jordan stay up chatting and keeping an observant eye on Ham, who eventually drifted off to sleep in an upright, sitting position. The time now 5:00 AM, I decided to go to sleep and crossed my fingers I wouldn't dream about the various different types of horrors I had just seen.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY. Have spooky scary vomit and/or naked Australian-filled nightmares!

Denouement - A month or so later Ham wrote on Oz's wall for his six-month anniversary with Shania - "awwww Ozzypoo and Shay. Happy 6 months!" - and it came up on my newsfeed.  "GROOOOSSSSSS!!!!" I shrieked, alone at my computer, "YOU'RE AWFUL!!!! I HAD TO LYSOL MY WHOLE BATHROOOOM!"

Imbibery in the First Degree

PREVIOUSLY ON BATTLESTAR GALACTICA - "I SHALL COMPLAIN ABOUT BEING JEWISH, AND I VOW TO CONTINUE!" 

Whoops. I had promised myself I'd write every weekend - FOR YOU, MY ADORING FAN(S)* - but I missed last weekend. I think the weight of knowing I had to continue such a leaden topic was leading me to do what I do best. No, not sleep. No, no eat, either. Stop suggesting things, I'm starting to get offended. I was going to say procrastinate - a most noble of pastimes. So, I decided to just write about something else for now. I'll circle back around to the Jewish thing at some point, I promise.**

*Hi, mom. (Also, could you bring me a glass of water next time you come upstairs? I would get it myself, but I'm SUPER comfortable, thanks.)
**"Thank goodness!", said no one.

Despite my self-professed hermit-slash-couch potato life, there was once a time where I saw young people regularly.* Occasionally, we would even go out! Or perhaps someone would have a get together at their apartment. What these last couple sentence are coded-ly saying is that sometimes there was drinking. Gasp!

*The fact that I said "young people" means I'm old now. Where can I get some prune juice? (And if you think this is a hack-y and obvious joke, my grandfather specifically requests we have prune juice in the fridge when he stays with us. It's not a stereotype if it's true.)

This isn't scandalous in the slightest. It's perfectly legal for me to drink. But as discussed elsewhere in this blog, I feel like I'm twelve - so it feels wrong to be drinking. And I don't really even like drinking all that much. Here's my juvenile though somewhat rational reasoning: firstly, alcohol has never tasted all that great to me. Beer is okay, wine is okay, but frankly, I'd just rather have a diet coke because it saves me money, calories, and will actually refresh me, which is what I'm looking for in a beverage.* There are sweet tasty mixed drinks, but I'm not allowed to order those since I'm male and have an ego that bruises like an apple. Secondly, I'm cheap.** I don't like spending money on things I don't enjoy; I just feel bad about it because it feels like a waste. So if it doesn't taste good to me, why should I drop a bunch of cash? The bottom line is I can order a diet coke and get fifteen refills for two dollars.***

*...and a lover. (Okay, that was weird. It seemed funny in my head but the word lover is so dour.)
**I know where you're going with this - don't even think about it.
***Wanna see me indignant? Tell me the restaurant I'm at CHARGES for refills.

So while in my day-to-day life I think of myself as a teetotaler - a word I can spell  just fine but can never say correctly on the first try - there have been times where I indulge in the sauce a bit. If you're surrounded by people who are drinking, sometimes it feels really uncomfortable to not be drinking.* So you do whatcha gotta do! And rare as me drinking is, I have noticed that when the booze is flowing heavily enough, one of four distinct personalities will emerge from within me. I have no control over which one shows up on any given night - it's like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and Mr. Hyde and Mr. Hyde and Mr. Hyde.

*Hooray for post-adolescent peer pressure!

1. ANDRE
Andre is always really happy to be out or at the party. He wants to dress well, and is really concerned with how his hair looks.* Andre really loves dancing. Like, he really loves dancing. He tries to start dance parties every five minutes, and typically he usually only gets one other person to dance with him. Trying not to be discouraged, he'll act like he's fine with a two-person dance party, but after about a minute and a half he'll run into the kitchen or find the other members of his group and say, "Okayit'snotabigdealbutWHYISNOBODYDANCINGhello?" really really fast with all the words mushed together like that. His attention span is frighteningly short, and he has trouble having coherent conversation.** Andre loves pop music, and upon recognizing the first two seconds of any song will shout "I LOVE THIS SONG!" even if what he really means is "I know this song."***

2. JEREMY
Jeremy is really overly nostalgic and kind of weepy. He never actually cries, but he feels like he's in the mood to cry, so he sort of sits around making himself feel, hoping a moment is going to happen. He purposely makes himself look like he's trying to hide the fact that he's sad, in hopes that someone will ask him if he's ok. Jeremy really wants to have a deep, meaningful, and revealing heart-to-heart with somebody at the party. Jeremy is happy to be around his friends, but thinks they're all going on to greater things and moving on in life without him. I'm pretty sure Jeremy is not fun to have around.

3. SMITH
Smith lives life pretty hardcore. Not really, but Smith doesn't like the idea that he's perceived as boring - he HATES the idea that he's predictable. So he wants to shock or surprise people by doing things you'd never expect. He's a rebel, man! He likes playing games that involve dares because SMITH FREAKING LOVES DARES. Smith loves to prove you wrong by doing something crazy n'wild! He swears more than he needs to, and he occasionally overshares. Smith loves doing shots, which is nuts, and he's super excited to take, like, a double shot without wincing, because it shows how much of a man he is.

4. THOMAS
Thomas is all too aware of how infrequently he drinks, and is nervous that he looks dumb while doing so, or that he's doing it wrong. He wants somebody else to make/order his drinks for him. He has also been known to just assign someone else to be in charge of his drinking for the night - "Should I drink this? I've already had three. I'm nervous. You're in charge of my drinking!" He's really really doesn't want to look like those drunk people that he feels that he's smarter/better/classier than****, and if he veers too close to acting those people he feels like everybody's judging him. At his apartment-warming party, he (and everyone) had a lot to drink and he spent most of the night saying "Are you patronizing me?" repeatedly to his own guests.*****

Pretty embarrassing. I don't want to spend time with any of those weirdos. It takes some of the sting off to talk about them like they're other people, but they're not. These people are me! It makes no sense! Smith loves looking like a real manly man? I hate and resent all that macho crap! Or maybe subconsciously, I don't?

Would now be a good time to mention just how seldom I drink? Truly. I think the last time I had alcohol at all was July, and the last time I was... what's the polite term? Overserved? Was March. So don't worry America, the odds of you running into any of these nutcases are slim to none. Hopefully.

*This is especially odd because anyone who knows me knows I NEVER (ever in the history of everdom) care about what my clothes or hair look like. 
**Direct quote to girl telling the story of her ex: "You know what? You're better off! He's too good for you! NO, I MEAN, REVERSE THAT! I MEANT YOU'RE TOO GOOD FOR HIM"
***Whenever I'm walking down the street in the city and a train passes with its incredible volume, I turn to whoever I'm with and shout "I LOVE THIS SONG!" as a joke, so the first time I noticed that Andre shouts that BUT FOR REAL, I knew I was a moron.
****Ironically, those are people like Andre and Smith.
*****Actual quote spoken by me to my roommate in the middle of that apartment-warming party, a particularly crazy night.

"We threw a theme party! The theme was SHITSHOW."