Where have all the cowboys gone

Good morning everyone, and happy new year!  I hope everyone has at least began the first steps of recovery from this weekend.  Whether it be an earlier bed time these last few days, or a couple of extra glasses of water per day in attempt to fix that nasty hangover; fixing yourself should be priority one.
I know that personally, I’ve had a rather rough time trying to get my head back on straight.  What’s doubly strange is that my body was damn near 100% on Monday.  I woke up, expecting to feel something akin to death or Barry Manilow’s singing, but I just had two sore legs (apparently you shouldn’t wear leather soled shoes when you go out to a NYE party where dancing will be prevalent) which were quickly cured by a pair of Extra Strength Tylenol Gelcaps.

You see, on New Year’s Eve, we went to a party at BMDS (Bermuda Musical & Dramatic Society) which was one of the biggest parties on the island.  Tickets were eighty bucks a pop, plus $5/drink, and bottles of champagne were $65.  We arrived at around 9:45 or so, and I started my latest adventure into alcoholism by giving the woman 150 dollars and asking for 15 drink tickets (as you can tell, my math skills were already fading into the abyss, and we hadn’t even got our foot in the door, which should give you some idea of the events to come) but Matt caught my snafu in time and I ended up with 10 tickets for $50.
By 11:30, I had managed to go through my first 10 tickets at an extraordinary pace.  I made my way to the front of the building to buy more tickets, and got 5 more.  At this point I was completely oblivious to the fact that my blood alcohol level was interchangeable with my age at this point, so drinking had become less of a priority and more of a contest with myself; could I manage to hold the glass steady enough while I raise my arm to my face?  If I aim up and to the left just a bit, will I be on track to hit my wobbling head at the right time?  No, didn’t think so.

At 11:45 I decided that we needed some champagne for the countdown.  I ran inside and bought a bottle for $65 (I hope that’s all I paid), and grabbed 6 glasses.  Matt, Hazen and I ran outside with the champagne and 5 glasses (one was somehow lost in the 6 steps between the champagne booth and the door) and found some girls to ring the New Year in with.  The 6 of us managed to down the bottle at a pace that would make most fish jealous, and following that, Hazen and I each lit up the last cigarette we would ever smoke.

Backstory: about a month ago, Hazen and I were standing on our back porch, and as we were talking we both made this really disgusting face.  After conferring, we realized that we had both made it thanks to how much we hated the taste of smoking.  We made the decision that our New Year’s resolution would be to quit smoking.  The fact that there wouldn’t be any temptation in the house would be beneficial as we wouldn’t have any reminders that we smoke.

After taking the last drag, I ceremoniously dropped the butt to the ground, stomped it out with great force, and proceeded to do what little jig I could, considering a) how much room I had, and b) what percent of my circulatory system was shriveling up at that moment.

Once we had realized that both of our hands were now empty (no smoke, and no champagne), we felt that the situation needed to be remedied by filling at least one of our two hands with the sweet, sweet nectar of the gods, and made our way back to the bar.  At this point, I’ve had so many drinks, I just give the bartender my entire strip of tickets, and tell him that he’s been a great friend all these years (even if I have only met him for the first time hours earlier) and to get each of these ladies standing next to me a drink (I later found out there wasn’t anyone standing next to me).

Around 1:15am, we were standing outside under the tent, and Matt says he’s getting tired.  For some reason or other (maybe we were talking to some girls, I’m not too sure), we decide that we’re not going anywhere, which Matt decides he’s OK with, and he walks off to go catch a cab out front.  Now I’m still not sure if he was just too drunk for his own good, or if he was genuinely trying to fuck with us, but around quarter to 2 rolls around, Matt walks back into our little circle and says “Fuck, I forget what I was doing…..oh yeah….going home…see ya guys!” and then walks off.  For a good 30 seconds, we all just kind of looked at each other in amazement.  Not a single person that we could find know what happened to him for that half hour.  No one saw him walking around, no one saw him in the washroom, and there’s a no re-entry policy at the party.
After giving up trying to figure out what the hell he was doing, we somehow made our way to a cab, and got home.  I am still not sure how we made it home, but we made it in one piece, with every piece of clothing and every accessory we originally left with.  While some may call that amazing, I would call that nothing short of miraculous.  The only thing I remember before passing out (in my own bed, no less) was having to hold on to the wall, because it felt like the Tilt-A-Whirl was testing their new supersonic prototype in my bedroom.

Monday, I woke up and except for my sore legs, I was damn near ready to run a marathon.

Unfortunately, Tuesday (yesterday), I didn’t feel too shit hot.  It’s like God decided that he wanted to give me a day of rest before he knocked me around like a punching bag at Gold’s Gym.  I had to go to the hospital for my X-Rays anyways, so when I got there, I asked to be put on an IV to help me get better; apparently IVs are only for actually sick people.  Go figure.

But here I am today, alive and well, if not a little less intelligent than I was 3 days ago.  It’s funny though, even after this whole debacle, I can definitely take something away from it: if you’re going to buy drink tickets, do it sober.