I went to a friend's place for some pre-party action on a typical Friday night. It had been a typically long week at work, what with the last tax week and whatnot, and my friends are eternally locked in their oh-so-out-of-college-but-trying-so-hard-to-stay-in-it phase that we shotgunned 6 beer in 15 minutes. After 1.43 hours of drinking, we headed out for the bar.
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And that's where I would like to talk to the people that be and demand I be refunded in full for the next 4.5 hours of my life. I was technically out of commission for 5ish hours, but I had some very vague memories of which if I documented in a script would probably (if played out by a wordy bastard such as Woody Allen) would equate to roughly half an hour.
So, this is an open letter to you.
DEAR THE POWERS THAT BE,
I DEMAND A FULL REFUND OF MY MEMORY AND/OR SOCIAL AND/OR PHYSICAL INTERACTIONS THAT OCCURRED BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 9:35pm APRIL 15th AND 2:05am APRIL 16th. I AM FAR TOO OLD TO BE RELIVING MY COLLEGIATE BLACKOUT BENDERS, AND MY EARNING POTENTIAL IS MUCH HIGHER (eg. bigger than it was in college) AND THEREFOREWITHIN MY TIME IS WORTH BIG MONEY. IF YOU CANNOT REFUND MY BRAIN IN FULL, I DEMAND A CHEQUE FOR $4,233.91*. IF IT IS FROM THE OFFICE OF GEORGE W. BUSH, THAT WOULD DEFINITELY MAKE UP FOR THE FACT THAT I LOST ALL THIS TIME. I COULD PROBABLY ALSO E-BAY IT FOR WAAAY MORE. IF IT WAS FROM GEORGE COSTANZA, THAT WOULD BE COOL AS WELL. THEY PROBABLY WON'T CASH IT THOUGH - THE GIRL AT MY BANK ONE BRANCH IS SURLY AND RECENTLY DIVORCED. WHILE YOU REFUND ME MY MEMORY, CAN YOU REMEND HER BROKEN HEART? IT'S A LOT HARDER THESE DAYS FOR OBESE MOTHERS OF 4 THAT HAVE WEBBED FEET TO REGAIN TRUST AND GET SERIOUSLY INVOLVED.
* NOTE - THE MONETARY AMUONT $4,233.91 IS WHOLLY AND COMPLETELY ARBITRARY AND DOES NOT PERTAIN TO MY REAL EARNING POTENTIAL. DO I CARE? FUCK NO, PAY ME.
I digress. I'm willing to work in tandem with your investigation committee to discover this lost time and send it back to me. My Uncle Geoff (pronounced Jeff, not Jee-Off you assholes) used to be a detective for the local farm agency to bust criminals involved in horse sodomy cases. Disgusting, I know - he is pretty fucking weird, but he's got mad detective skills - DON'T FRONT! He gave me some awesome advice (as well as some shitty advice like 'Look for a stool' how the hell is that going to help me get my time back you asshat?)
Here I share to you all of the evidence I have been able to uncover.
In the MEMORIES department:
- I drank Jager Bombs, and lots of them. I shared some with others at the bar, and according to receipts listed below, I think I bought a round for the bar. I lost my voice chanting 'YAY-GER, YAY-GER'. I also lost my voice shouting 'NO, I GOT THIS ROUND'. Shit.
- I remember being kissed on the neck by a girl. She was cute, but had a bit of a problem... I beleive the clinical term is 'Milkshakey BigMacius'. She was a biggun. I have a massive welt on my throat.
- I seem to recall being shaken down by a Bouncer. At the time I felt violated, but then I apparantly forgot about the altercation and just accepted the fact that I was physically removed from a place that I don't recall the name to.
- There was a dude - no, not like that, people... I was stumbling back from the bathroom (or bar, or ATM, or staggering in the middle of the street, I can't recall) but he approached me and struck up a conversation. He pronounced his name and said he was from Iceland. I repeated his name : "ROKFACE?" He disagreed. I barely remember arguing with him for some time and introducing him to random women (who, again, if I was offered $2000 a head to recognize in an all-pooch-patrol line up I would have no chance of winning) as "HEY HAVE YOU MET MY BOY ROKFACE? HE'S FROM IRELAND!!!" I think he promised to buy me drinks, but I don't remember. Not that it's a reach that I don't remember.
- I grabbed a boob. Two problems here: One) I was in Boystown and Two) He had a nametag. Wow - I just put it together - this must have been the impetus for the above mentioned ejection from the club.
- I thought I was peeing in the garbage can in the bathroom. I remember three girls yelling 'What the hell are you doing?' and I said 'WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOING? I'M RICK JAMES BITCH! GET OUT OF THE GUYS WASHROOM' to which they responded "Get your own cab, you dumb shit. And put that teeny weeny back in your pants!" I think I pissed on her satin Manolo Blahnik shoes. Then again, she could have been an eskimo and I could have been spraying whale blubber on her sealskin moccasins for all I fucking know. These memories are more of 'suggestive thinking process and loose-based brainstorming' then anything concrete. It's not my fault - I blame the shotgunned PBRs.
In the PHYSICAL EVIDENCE department:
- Tequila. Not so much from a physical speciman of tequila leftover from the night specifically, but more from the fact that I have the word 'Tequila' marked in a black Sharpie on my upper left arm. I must have done at least one shot.
- A Credit Card Receipt for $547.50. Clearly an awesomely-sized misunderstanding. I didn't wake up with a new Klaus Kobec or Zeitner Aquasport or Croton Watch or a Sean John sequence-studded outfit. No year-long XSport fitness membership, no 36 month Netflix subscription card, no new 7.1 megapixel digital cameras in my possession, and I definitely didn't wake up beside two unwrapped PSPs. Just one Jolly Green Giant-sized hangover. With a size of corn-laden ralph flakes served in a cold porcelain bowl. I was maundering throughout the night, and yet coherent enough to sign my name and dot the god damed I in my last name.
- A completely melted McDonald's caramel sundae in my back pocket. Luckily, they store them in strong plastic transparent cup-like container. Unluckily, I'm a chubby bitch and I sat on that bad boy while riding in the (Insert random transportation that I don't recall getting home in) and cracked that motherfucking lid down the side, slithering a cold-then-luke-warm-then-sticky-like-a-wrapless-cadbury-creme-egg-eaten-in-the-hot-sun stream of caramel and 'milk-like substance' down the crack of my fucking pants, boxers, and then on to my ass hair. Waking up this morning with my boxers glued to my fat ass was an inherently awe-inspiring incident.
- In my cel phone, I uncovered an entry labelled 'Lacy Stace Lady' and the number (which was labelled strangely as 'FAX NUMBER') was marked as 7731*42-48854-3. What the fuck is that? I tried calling the number, and suprisingly enough no one answered. Damn, I thought Ms. Star-in-her-fucking-phone-number could solve my problem of the lost 4.5 hours.
- An ATM receipt. Not a withdrawl, but a transfer. $188.00 from Savings to Chequing. I must have had full capacity of my huge brain at that point, because I don't have a Savings account. Not only that, but it wasn't even my bank card number. Must have grabbed it from a table thinking it was the winning lottery ticket for the 208 Million dollar lottery. I'm such an idiot.
- One semi-dried lime slice in my shirt pocket. Must have been storing this alongside my pack of waterproof matches and tarp in case I got lost in the fucking woods.
- A woman's garter belt, black, frilly, smells like lilac. I wasn't at a wedding, and I *know* I didn't get any, as my piss first thing this morning didn't have that 'OH WHAT THE FUCK MY PISS STREAM IS SPLIT AND I'M HEADING DOWN THE TRACKS TO URINATION STATION WITH STOPS TO THE LEFT AND RIGHT OF MY OWN BOWL' experience when I woke up, and I was most likely too fucking hammered to even get a semi, let alone an insertable chub.
That's about it. I'll keep my eyes, ears, and the rest of my senses (once they return) peeled for any additional evidence of last night's experience that turns up.
In the mean time, PLEASE, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST, GIVE ME MY DAMN 4.5 HOURS BACK! AND WHILE YOUR AT IT, GIVE THE COLLECTIVE COMMUNITY OF WRIGLEYVILLE THE 1,387 HOURS OF BLACKOUT DRUNK TIME THAT THEY LOST LAST NIGHT!
Thanks so much in advance,