Charlee’s Slice
Just what the Doctor ordered, a good drunk night out, and a whole day to recover. My week was ridiculous last week; had a couple exams and papers and what-not school stuff. But sure enough, Friday came as it always does, and just when I thought I was going to have a quite night in, Rachel fed me some earl grey tea and I perked up and was ready to party. After taking a few shots of Finnlandian Vodka, Peter, Rachel, and I headed downtown to meet Mike, Tony, and Tyler at the Up & Up. We found the two of them helping celebrate the 21st birthday of a friend of a friend. I was going to make Peter order me a drink since I am menu illiterate, but Tyler offered to let us share his pitcher. I was seated next to the birthday boy, and he kept telling me I wasn’t drinking fast enough, which maybe I wasn’t since I totally dominated at a new drinking game called ‘15’. 15 was invented by the cute Canadian across from me, where everyone around the table counts down until the number 15 is reached, whoever gets the number 15 gets to make up a rule for another number (whoever lands on three has to say eethray instead of three). It was fun, and we almost got all the way through it, but people were lame and decided they didn’t want to play anymore.
At about that time, we all moved down to the Beaver. I asked the bartended for a double whiskey coke, but in a large glass because I wanted a lot of soda. He ended up filling a pint glass over halfway full with whiskey, with a splash of coke. Not quite what I asked for, possibly even better since I was pretty wasted before I got halfway through it. And he only charged me $6.00 for it. So Rachel and I decided to grab a seat at the bar when we were approached by some “east-coasters” asking us our opinion on their concept of maple syrup vodka. My immediate reaction was “Breakfast shot! Hair of the bird that bit you!” For some reason, these bar goers were appalled that I would even suggest alcohol before 10 am. I was not able to convince them that it could replace the bloody mary as the hangover cure (since no one likes tomato juice anyway), but they were strictly alcohol after 5 people. It’s their loss anyway my marketing scheme could have made them millions. Even though they didn’t like my idea, the dorkiest one asked me to go home with him, and I was like “I am defiantly going to MY home tonight.” Right around this point we lost half our group to the Horseshoe, since “they couldn’t find us” right in the spot they left us about 20 minutes earlier. Oh well, we continued on to Caps where I was hiton by another guy who was super creepy looking, but it was my fault since I antagonized him into buying tequila shots for his cute friends but I refused to take one with them since I couldn’t see straight.
We left very quickly after that to meet the not-so-fictional Ellen for some dancing at Rumors. We were met part-way there by a couple of hilarious gay men. One of them spilt a drink all over his pants and was super embarrassed about it, but he was in really dark jeans so I couldn’t see anything. But he insisted it looked like he peed himself, so I told him it will all dry off once we started to dance and he told me he loved me for being so optimistic. We only danced for less than an hourr, because really how much techno can one listen to in an evening? Rachel and I decided we had had enough and we headed home.
I ended up not getting to sleep until after 3, but my internal clock woke me at 7 the next morning, so I spent the rest of the day and night lazy around my apartment. Peter tried to call me and leave a nasty message since I promised to go to a disco party with him and totally bailed, but my phone hasn’t been working very well so I never got the message. Sunday was a little more productive, I got up early and cleaned my place, visited the guys for a little while and then Rachel and I went to see Pirate Radio. It was great, we even hunted down the soundtrack after the movie. This weekend, should be no disappointment, but Rachel is going home, so Erin will be my crazy companion. Will keep you posted.
Rachel’s Slice:
It’s getting to be that time of year again when I don’t really feel like doing much in the way of writing. I had a midterm on Wednesday, and a draft due this morning. I’m a little over the whole writing thing—especially when it comes to writing about me.
I decided to tackle a personal issue that’s really been bugging me for almost two years in a non-fiction piece for class. I thought it might help me work things out, get rid of some of the guilt I feel in the wake of it all. But it’s not. I’m having a hard time getting it right. It isn’t about the syntax or the metaphor or the word choice. It’s about how all I’m doing is bringing it back up and feeling just as awful about things as ever.
Which is why I’m taking a writer’s retreat for the weekend. I’m going home to sit in my childhood bedroom and re-connect with my 16 year old self so that I can work on the second piece for my non-fiction portfolio: a little piece on vindication and the innocence of high school crushes. The usual territory.
I’m a jilted woman this week. While in the past I’ve usually just shrugged it off and gone in search of someone new, I don’t have it in me. I’m spending all this time thinking about the only true relationship I’ve ever had, and I can’t help but realize how much I’m still stuck in it. So here’s the debate: Is it healthier to keep going for these guys and failing—or should I just wait?
At the moment, I’m trying my hardest not to pull back from everyone, which is what I always seem to do at this time of year. I’m trying not to let myself hide underneath the covers until I turn 22. I’m trying not to let attacks at my character hurt me, trying not to take everything so personally.
I’ve been having dreams about the Broman. Repeatedly, almost every night since last Saturday. I miss him, and I probably shouldn’t. I miss him and I keep looking at the piece of paper I have his cell phone number written down on. I keep running my fingertips over it and knowing he wouldn’t answer anything I said. I miss him and think about how I haven’t felt that way about any guy I’ve dated since. I’ve been in the arms of three other guys since June, and none of them felt as right as his did. But I don’t want that again, don’t expect that again. All I want, could even hope for, is a reply back. To be able to sit next to him and listen to his laugh, to be able to buy him a drink and hear about how he’s been.
This isn't the usual pie-blog, and I wish I could be able to write something a little more expected. But this is me right now, where I’m at and how I feel. I can’t put on a happy face right now and take a vodka shot to make it better. I have to deal with this. Have a good weekend, dear readers.
XOXO, Rachel
P.S. My dad bought me an ice cream cone every year on my birthday. He said goodbye to me every morning before he left for work. My father and I have always been close. I have an ideal relationship. So why is it that I have such a fucked up time when it comes to guys?
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