Work
11:30 Banana Break
Sucked at frisbee.
Stole some tacos.
Convinced my bosses to throw away a lot of stuff we will never use, ever.
A girl returned an apple box late but made up for it by giving me candy bars. SO Workshops.
Thought of the worst idea for a movie ever, time travelling slave.
Built shelf under the bed.
Clapped fruit flies until my palms blistered.
Ate stolen tacos and got more drunk than I intended. This is going to make the rest of the evening more challenging.
Confirmed: moving a queen sized mattress by yourself while drunk is tough.
This is one hell of a Tuesday night.
New York was nice because you could be drunk anywhere, anytime and the subway would get you where you wanted to go and wouldn’t judge you. The Subway here just asks me what kind of bread I want.
Wait, is it queen size mattress or queen sized mattress?
Just about time for back to back Seinfeld. Goodnight folks, wish me luck waking up in the morning!
Tag: drunk
Canadian Storytime
Listen up, it’s storytime.
Growing up in western Maine was great. There were countless miles of rivers to swim, tons of mountains to snowboard and cheap candy at your local Dead River convenience store. An often overlooked aspect of western Maine is it’s close proximity to the great country of Canada, also known as “get drunk when you’re eighteen-ada.”
February 2005, the summer of love, Pat, Seth and I are in Montreal. I’m driving and they’re beyond wasted. (Side note; if you don’t read the whole story you won’t realize that I’m not trying to make drinking look cool.) We are about to head home, when Seth speaks up from the backseat. “I think they’re trying to flag us down.” Sure as shit, a car of four hot girls has pulled up next to us. They’re pointing us towards a parking lot. We pull in and I am quickly reminded of day one of a communication class I took in college. (Warning: Story within a story.) The teacher bursts into the classroom screaming German at us. It was loud, scary and perfectly represented his first point. You can’t communicate if you’re not speaking the same language.
Back to Canada, the girls are speaking French and we’re still having a hard time with the English language.
You would think that screaming “we want to give you kisses” while pointing to your lips would make sense to them. Nay. After a few minutes of failed communication, we left. Empty handed. Defeated. Cock blocked by our own global ignorance.
We rode in silence for a few miles, I mean, kilometers. The silence was broken when Seth drunkenly spoke up again.
“Wait, I know French.”
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