So it’s Sunday morning again. I wake to find the Sahara desert has relocated to my mouth and DJ Kool Herc is rocking one of his block parties in my head. As I struggle to open my eyes, the memories from the previous night come rushing through my brain like a motorcycle fuelled by amphetamines. Some Sundays the memories are not too bad. An example of an average night; me asking a young women why she was clubbing when she was pregnant, first of all its just rude to ask and none of my business, second (and worst) she wasn’t pregnant! Seems pretty bad but I’ve done worse.
I stumble out of bed and attempt to walk to the kitchen (which looks more like a pathetic re-enactment of a Tap Dog’s routine.) I can still feel the alcohol in me, signalling I hadn’t had enough sleep or, consumed way to much the night before, which ever sounds better. As I walk past my brother’s room, I peer in and can see he’s had just as big a night as me. How I can tell? He still had his shoes on. I get to the kitchen grab a drink, take a seat and start reminiscing about the night before.
I vaguely remember getting to the club, hugging and kissing a few people like I haven’t seen them in years (yet I saw them last week at the same place at the same time - force of habit I guess). As I approached the entrance I was becoming anxious that I’d get bounced for no I.D, even though I’m 20 years old and have been going to the club since I was 16.
The security guard is like a menopausal sixty-something year old women. Sometimes he’s the loveliest man, and other times (well most of the time) he’s mean as hell. Luckily, tonight he wasn’t at the door. Instead a small white man had taken his place. He looked as if he’d been hit by a motorcycle fuelled by ampheta… oh my bad I’ve already used that simile, hmm let’s try again. A small white man stood at the entrance, he looked as though he’d been hit by a gigantic hippopotamus (that’s more like it), so he wasn’t really taking notice of who walked in or out of the club. Phew, I’m in.
So the next big challenge is getting down two treacherous flights of stairs, (yes they are treacherous when you’re wasted) whilst fumbling around in my pockets for the fifteen dollar cover charge (what a joke I know), then being confronted by the crazy, power tripping door bitch. Try and dodge your way past her - you’ll have a big butch Samoan she-man to deal with, no thank you.
As I enter the club I quickly scan the place without being too obvious, looking for anyone I know, or actually want to see, haven’t spotted anyone too special yet, but I reassure myself he’s somewhere there. Making my way to the bar, I kiss and hug a few more people I don’t really know or care to see and order my best friend and I tequila shots and vodka sunrises. After downing two tequila shots each, we walk towards the toilet to have a smoke. By then the ethanol’s playing with my head, and I’ve forgotten about what’s-his-face, temporarily of course, because just as I reach the front of the toilet, he is standing there, we make eye contact, my buzz sky rockets through the roof and the game begins.
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