It starts at 10 a.m. on Saturday, Sept. 26. I wake up with one helluva hangover. My head is stuck to my pillow, heavy, foggy. I’ve been dreading the day, because my roommate and I had decided that we were going to “throw back” to first year and get far too drunk during the homecoming football game. I slither out of bed and imagine turning into a puddle because of my headache. Breakfast is a Coke and two ibuprofen pills. Momentary respite; it’s all downhill from here. We go to the market for seemingly no reason, ’cause nobody actually bought anything to my memory, but whatever. We finally make our way to the liquor store around 12:30 p.m.
Get back to the house and begin the debauchery as if we still lived in residence. What you don’t realize when you try to celebrate homecoming outside of residence is that it’s not residence. It’s four of us just pounding back beer/radlers. You forget that half the fun of homecoming is drinking with, like, 100 like-minded and equally drunk people. We keep drinking because we’ve already started. We’re there until 2:30 or so. We figure we’ll come in at just about halftime, which is the worst time to arrive when you just want to keep drinking.
We leave the house, road beers firmly in our grasps, and come to the field to find out that—
It’s not halftime yet, which means it’s pitcher time. Halftime hits, the score is A Lot to Not Very Many for the other team. Apparently we’re getting pummeled. We’re not there for the game, we’re there for the environment. I look around and realize that I know almost nobody outside of the people I’m drinking with, which tells me that I’m either too old to be here, which can’t be the case based on the amount of middle-aged dudes slamming pitchers, or that all of my friends hate sports. Someone showed up with temporary tattoos. I of course take one and, in the absence of water, try to put it on with the beer in my glass. It works surprisingly well. I keep drinking, forgetting why I did this in the first place. My housemate Justin pours a cup of beer on his face. We go to the beer tent after we finish the pitchers. We get more beer, of course, because why else are we here. The game ends A Lot More to A Lot Less in favour of the other team. We stumble back to our house.
We’re sitting at a solid 7/10 drunk, which at 4 p.m. is a lot more than anyone should be, but definitely nowhere near where others at the game had been. It’s a good middle ground. We get back to the house, and this is about when I passed out for a couple hours. Justin is on the floor of our porch completely unconscious, I choose a better location on the couch. After two hours asleep I finally wake up in what can only be described as deep Post-Nap Depression (also a hangover). I mix myself a rye and ginger so that I can keep going. I’m jamming to some blaring hip-hop. I learn that, like Riff Raff, I would “only fuck wit hoes who rock Dolce and Gabbana.” I want to leave for a party in the Commons but before this I have to puke. It’s a doozy. It’s only 8:30 p.m.
We stumble to the Commons and I’m an absolute chimney on the way, but nobody else I’m walking with smokes. It’s a lonely, drunk, unbalanced, long walk. We go inside and our friends are, somehow, drunker than us. I attribute this to the puke I had earlier. We meet a guy who is holding an empty Texas mickey of vodka. He’s loud about his achievement. I feel sad for what Three Litre Vodka Man will feel like in the morning. One of the boys is so drunk that he smashes Tupperware over his knee after a shot. I don’t see how this can keep him from puking, but it does. It’s about at this time that we realize it’s 9:30 p.m. and way too goddam early to be this wasted. We go back home to continue drinking casually. We end up at the Pond.
The line is shorter than I figured it would be. Drunk time isn’t real time, though. Once we get in, I squirrel my way to the front of the line and order two rye and gingers. I get one down. One is knocked out of my hand by a friend. He doesn’t buy me another one. It’s about 120 degrees in the Pond. Completely expected. It gets real sweaty. I find my way to the dance floor with the people I came with. In typical ‘us’ fashion we dance in a circle and try not to touch the drunken masses. I watch a friend make out with a stranger. I want to high five them but restrain myself. I notice the DJ’s complete lack of interest in what was going on, but he’s dropping some absolute bangers so it’s cool. I dance my goddam heart out. At one point I think I’m going to die. Everyone in the Pond needs to go directly to Horny Jail. The lights are suddenly on. I’m drenched in what I think is a combination of booze, my sweat, and other people’s sweat. Classic night at the Pond. We make it to Goya’s where I buy an order of large garlic fingers and we devour them. The night of debauchery is finally over.
- Humour
