Tuesday, June 29, 2010

I've Got A Dark Alley and A Bad Idea...

The worst night. EVER.
So, I have been working pretty hard lately. I get in at 9am, I leave for an hour or two for dinner, go back to studio, and then leave after midnight. I also go in on weekends. But my boss told me that, in radio, the hours are crazy [true], so when one has time off, one should not rest, because one will be tired forever. Instead, one should go out and go crazy. So I took his advice.
First up, movie premier. My two first choices for dates could not make it [I am a reject], so I took my non-gay GBF. We just pretend he’s gay, because I miss my fags back in the Cape.
So, I go have lunch with my World Cup ‘boyfriend’ [it’s a long story]. I have had a crush on this boy for a good six years, and he is basically me, with a penis. As you can imagine, he is AMAZING! After lunch [read: margheritas] I decide I need shoes for this premier. Gold ones. I don’t find gold shoes, but I do stumble across the most gorgeous Aldo FMHeels ever. They are a size too big, but I am determined. Upon swiping my card, I realise I have considerably less cash left than I thought. Too late, though. We’ll just coin the phrase ‘fabulously broke’.
And speaking of late, so am I. I am in Jo’burg, and I have to drive to Pretoria, get ready and dressed, pick up my petrol card, fill up my car, do some recording in studio and drive back to Jo’burg. The premier starts in less than two hours. After a mad rush, and a little bit of getting lost [what’s new?], we arrive. And there is no one else there. But we’re an hour late. What gives? OH. The movie itself played somewhere else. Somewhere completely different, in a completely different part of town. We are at the after party. Briliant. So, I missed the whole thing.
Anyway, we chill at said after party and everyone arrives soon enough. Free drinks are Appletiser and tequila cocktails, and this epileptic ignores the fact that she absolutely cannot drink tequila, justifying these cocktails by the fact that Appletiser can be counted as one of one’s fruit portions for the day. A considerable number of cocktails and drinks later, a few hours of mingling and many promises that I will buy the DVD of this thing, I decide it’s time for one last one. Free drinks have run out, but that’s fine. I get my bill. R67. SIXTY SEVEN RAND, for a SINGLE tequila and Appletiser. I have never sworn so much in my life. I mean, seriously? SERIOUSLY?! Bank account maxed out in one day, on shoes and a drink. By now I am over Jo’burg, and praying that the drink is at least spiked with heroin. [Kidding]. After picking up the guys, we head out to Parkhurst. And what happens? I get asked for ID. Seriously?! At what point in my life am I going to stop looking 17?
In Jolly’s, I am a LOT overdressed. It is dark, and smoky, and loud. We meet up with two adorable German virgins who are in their first year of varsity. Some bitch ashes a hole in my brand new stockings, and I am angry. By the time we’ve each had some beers, nine shooters [Goomf likes to buy these things in sets of three] and I hear “’cause I’m your laaaaaaaaaaaadyyyyy”, I know it is time to go home. But no, why don’t we stop in Greenside first? Why not, I say. The shoes are [unsurprisingly] still too big, and for fear of Lize breaking her neck, World Cup Boyfriend [WCBF] carries me. I have now removed prostitute- like, hole-filled stockings, and flash every human being in Parkhurst. Nice.
Gin is great, as always. I keep being fed more shooters, and upon calculating that I have drunk my bodyweight in alcohol, I put my foot down. I am still sober, and I quit. I’m going home. But certain parties want to go get weed first. And then, my driver’s licence seems to be missing. Now, bear in mind that I have to drive across the country [okay, 300km] for work in a few hours. Fairly fed up, I am relieved to be offered a bed at Virgin #1’s house. We get there, and I am offered weed. I don’t smoke [epilepsy, once again] but I [still sober] make some joke about ‘No thanks, unless you have cocaine...’ Virgin #2 giggles nervously and tells me that I “shouldn’t do bad drugs”. She is so cute that I don’t even have the heart to point and laugh.
Eventually we get to bed at 6am. Bed is a fourteen year-old German boy’s room. I am on a blow-up mattress, and I have never seen so many toys in my life. For someone who believes that toys come to life at night, this is creepy. This bedtime, in itself, is not a problem. Except that I have to be up at 7am. Because I need to drop off the guys, drive to Pretoria, wash myself so that I don’t smell like a shebeen any longer, tidy my disastrous house a bit, get a new driver’s licence, find money to get said driver’s licence, pack for a week away for work [in WELKOM!], do more recording in studio, go see my dad [just back from Austria] and leave for Welkom. I have until 11am to do all of this. Besides, I calculate that I had a total of about 22 drinks [of which most were shooters and cocktails] and, in light of my weighing less than 50kgs, I am dreading the epic hangover with which I am about to be sledgehammered in the face.
I have no hangover. NONE. No nausea, no headache, no facepalming myself over the multitude of stupid things I did the night before. I feel absolutely fine. My licence is in the car. I remember someone telling me something amazing at 5:30am. Now, if that isn’t reason to smile, what is?
Jo’burg, last night was awesome. Let’s NEVER do that again.