When you have the worst hangover of your life…

And for a 48 hour period you feel like you are in the movie Trainspotting.

You all know what I’m talking about. Or actually for the sake of your body and also your mental/emotional health – I hope you don’t.

As the water pours over my feeble naked soul of a dead being – I try and lift my arms up to wash my hair and they’re shaking so bad I have to give up.  So I do the next logical thing – pee in the shower and slowly slide to the tub floor.  I slowly hug my knees and let the water pour over my face and eyes until I can’t see and as I shudder, I imagine the baby on the ceiling in Trainspotting and how I could have prevented all of this from happening…

Ok, time to flip a B – let’s go back to the beginning.  It all started with the innocent promise of happy hour fun with some of the best tacos in San Francisco (disclaimer – I saw NO Mexicans in there – soooo there are better tacos out there. Don’t you dare say racist, everyone’s own culture knows the real deal.)

Well shit, it’s my lucky day because the happy hour special is $5 for a beer and a shot. Annnnnd bourbon and Kettle One happen to be options – clearly someone is out to murder my liver and cause me to do the rain dance. So I decide that I will take advantage of this offer 3 times over (naturally) and we move on to my friends house so they can change into ‘going out’ attire.

At this point in time, everything in my being is telling me to GTFO, I mean run for the goddamn hills, because there is a Tsumani of booze and drugs coming your way and you just might not make it. Against my better judgement, I stay and begin to drink more, since that is what happens when you go out with a bunch of savages who party like it is indeed – 1999.

For the sake of trying to reenact how crazy my night was – I will try to explain it like exactly how I experienced it.

Betches, shots! 1, 2, 3, 4 – wow it smells delicious, pot, pot, pot. Slores, these shots won’t drink themselves! 5, 6, 7, 8 – how does this look? hot girl parading in her bra and thong, another girl without a shirt. (did this become a no shirt Eyes Wide Shut party?!) Clothes on, clothes off – shoes, so many shoes, drunk red head falls and spills the vodka – time for another shot. 9. HEY GUYSSSSS we’re like 2 hours late to the house party. Pot, pot, one more shot. 10. House party, dudes – sweater vest (unacceptable unless you are Ryan Gosling), bourbon shot, a girl I dub see you next tuesday, skinny girl playing obscure music – I like her, I shall dance. Shot. 11. Girl with wedges takes a dive – is caught by hot guy who has a girlfriend – she’s there. Dirty stares. I dance between the awkwardness flailing wildly. I am brazen, I am awesome, I am super drunk. 11pm. Bars. Bar #1, can barely move, hot bro is talking to my friend, we make eye contact and I make a hideous face – he gives me a fist bump and buys me a drink. Idiot. I start dancing again, but don’t hear any music. Bathroom party. I write on the mirror with lipstick and laugh as I am being ushered into a stall. Unbelievable burst of energy. Photo shoot against the mirrors. So many exposed body parts. Too drunk to care. On the dance floor dancing like a Yeti trapped in a refrigerator box. So many lights. Prius. I’m in a black Prius and don’t know how I got here. Pull over! I yell, but it comes out like Poolz oer! Driver says we are almost there. Where? Home. Immediate laughter. I am being kidnapped, I am certain. Can’t keep my head up at all. ‘Ma’am’ we’re here, are you alright? NEVER FLUFFT BETTER I yell into the night. Face plant.

And now you know. It was epic. It was trying. I somehow managed to get home safe. My body will never be the same.

I think I’m going to like this town.



On Getting Mugged

…and Drinking Your Face Off.

Face off you say!  Nicolas Cage and John Travolta you slimy bastards – how dare you create an amazing movie and make my face-off references that much more meaningful.  Not to mention make me want to watch the movie and secretly hope that one of them turns into the Hulk and just yells “FACE-OFF!!!!!” ripping off faces in a fit of rage when anyone lightly caresses his face with their fingertips.  But I digress…

Ahhh being mugged.  And don’t get me wrong, I don’t mean that in a relaxing or reassuring way. I was mother fucked MUGGED people!  By some crazy kat who probably thought he was going to hit it big.  It’s a good thing I’m crazy too.  Let me back it up and explain my boring story on what happened.  I had just flown back from Boston to my new home San Francisco – I had all of luggage and precious cargo – my face, my buttocks, my hands, etc – and so I took the escalator out of the train station and headed for the streetz.  OBSERVATION: there were 3 teenagers in front of me and two guys behind me.  I saw that hailing a cab was proving difficult for the prostitutes on the street corner (FALSE – these were just people, going about their business), so I took it upon myself to utilize my shiny iPhone 5 that had a dope cover on it (bet you were expecting dope ass!).  Well good luck trying to be a real person – because the minute I look at my phone I notice a man in front of me that I hadn’t before.  I took one look at him and while on the phone with a cab dispatcher, that mother fucker start sprinting at me like a goddamn gazelle in the  middle of a lioness hunt.

Thoughts going through my head – dude, you have a horrible haircut, omg does he have a gun? wow that jacket he’s wearing happens to be my favorite color, your eyes are like a pugs and are bulging out of your face – that’s nasty, etc.

In this moment while those thoughts were flailing through my noggin (does anyone use that anymore? I’m bringing it BACK!) this man karate chops me in the face, I fall over my luggage and he proceeds to wrestle my phone out of my hand while I continually punch him in his [dumb] head.  He then succeeds in taking my phone, and runs off with it like he’s expecting me to throw a goddamn Olympic medal around his [dumb] neck. I scream “You fucking piece of shit!!!!!!!” and he gives me the finger.  How humiliating.

So, while my pride, my faith in humanity and my disbelief in that man’s gross eyeballs have left me at a loss for words – I decide to move on, and do what I do best.  Quit my full time job and go to Blaine’s Beauty School and cut hair!!!!  Eh? Remember those killer commercials?  Where they show you a picture of some girl’s hair they just cut and the decide to throw in sparkles and streaks behind them for effect like old school photo backgrounds from the 80’s?!  I just had to take a deep breath – that was a lot of unexpected excitement for me.  I am a product of the late 80’s.

So I didn’t actually quit my job…but I decided to take on a part-time job of DRINKING MY FACE-OFF. Ok ok, before you go being all judge-y and thinking that I in fact just publicly declared myself an alcoholic, I am actually referring to a specific week that I’ve been looking forward to for many moons.

BEER WEEK!!!!!! A week where all the hermits, hipsters, techies and self proclaimed bad-asses come together and appreciate some fine ass beer.  (Disclaimer: Not actual ass beer, GROSS WHAT IS THAT, but beer that is as fine as a wonderful bottom).

So my first night of drinking consists of planning to go to 5 bars so my taste buds can have many tiny flavor orgasms while I play Big Game Hunter and shoot fake antelope and yet yell as if I am R.Kelly winning a Grammy – FINALLY people will start recognizing me outside of thinking my sheets smell like piss!!!!!!!! (they do).  If you don’t get that reference, FUCK YOU.  No, I didn’t mean that – watch Thrift Shop by Macklemore & Ryan Lewis or just Google R.Kelly or something. You idiot.

Ok soooooo, there are three favorite parts to my night – one was gaining up enough courage (and by courage I mean two 11% beers) to inform the awesome new people I was with that I had a knife on me and could wield it in the event of us being jumped.  Later when we were walking in a straight line on the street, the guy in the back of our group yells “Don’t worry, WMF* has a knife!!!!” I give a super enthusiastic thumbs up (as I now have the hiccups) and laughter ensues.  Thank you to the clever SOB who came up with thumbs up. (and thank you to myself for something I will be utilizing Wikipedia for later…)

*Wolf Master Flex – that is my name damnit.  My Mom is a Wolf and my Dad is a DJ. It’s a long story.

Second part was me and my partner in crime T deciding that we were past the point of being modest.  People began leaving their beers behind, some of which they took one sip of.  Well when the bartender says “Sorry we JUST ran out of the beer you’ve been seeking out for a year” and someone leaves that full beer behind – not only will I drink it, I’ll SHOWER in it.  I yelled to T and hand him the other glass, we triumphantly cheers and finish their beers.  Fast forward to 2 bars later – we are waiting for our sausages, yes sausages! Rosamunde sausage grill – T and I go to the area where they have water and pour ourselves a glass.  After pounding some water we notice a lone beer sitting there, very cold and looks to be the limited edition beer they ran out of…without speaking we take turns pouring it little by little in each of our glasses.  We cheers and pound the beer, super proud of ourselves for not letting a beer go to waste.  You say homeless people tendencies, I say DELICIOUS.

Third favorite part just so happens to have taken place after I’ve eaten not one, but two sausages – one of which happens to be a Vegan sausage that I remember being angry at for just how spicy it was.  Angry spicy food sweats – never pretty, unless of course you are Mila Kunis eating Indian food in a white and gold sari.  Sari I’m not sari.  HA!

Ok so there was this chick wearing a Tiger print robe that almost hit the floor, it was epic.  So epic that I felt I had to inform everyone at the table that that chick is awesome and how do I get one of those.  Of course, instincts and reason step in and T yells “Hey, come here!” to the lady in the coat.  She comes over and proceeds to tell us about her coat, the fact that it’s reversible and that you can wear it on your back, but not ON your back in case you start to overheat – you can just look like a poacher who murdered a Tiger, great for repelling muggers and perfect when blending into a family room with an epic fireplace.  Epic used three times in a paragraph?! Who am I today?  A Shakespearean Jesus?!

The last thing I remember from that night is singing at the top of my lungs with T and dancing around in his boxers while performing round house kicks in perfect rhythm to the song we were belting out.

Now if only I can remember how I got here in the first place…and for that Beer week, I thank you.

When you eat sushi by yourself

….after working out for a hour and a half.

Coming home on the train after going crazy – doing a cross training class followed by a pop class.  My knees hate me.

Waiting for the train I look around and size up the people around me.  The dreamer, the schemer, the artist, the old, the lost, the found.  I find some of their eyes meeting mine and I make a point to look sternly at the schemer who weaves in and out of the trains like a snake trying to find a bite to eat.

The old looks at me and sizes up my moves. I like it when I grab the attention of the old because they are expecting one thing, yet they always get another.  I offer my seat to a little girl and her mother and carelessly toss my gym bag between my feet and pridefully whip out, my dick! No, no – I don’t have one of those. My book.  I slowly caress the pages and run my finger along the broken edges where the cover fought a battle with the other shit in my purse and clearly lost.  Sometimes I question my weird quirk of rubbing the inner pages of my book like a museum curator caressing the dust off of a prized piece.  My friend Becky used to call this ‘rubbie book!’ as in stop rubbing your book ass hole, the rest of us don’t want to hear you stroking the pages.  Why do I do this? OCD maybe – but also I really love to read. And I’m weird.

Tits!  Where did that old man go?  And now I’m going into a coughing fit to the delight of the girl next to me as I begin to grab at my water bottle – where the eff did I put that green monstrosity?  I read a weird line in my book and I need a minute to let this sink in. Sometimes I wonder if people even realize how I am in a completely different world then them – reading about an intense wet dream the main character is having in my book.  And no you sicko it’s not a porno – ignore the fact that I have a one track mind and get back to your book.

I am not hungry. But aren’t you?  You just forced your body to flail around like a second grader just learning to understand rhythm for the past 30 minutes, are you sure?  I AM actually hungry, but since I am not a rabbit – eating a bowl of spinach will not suffice tonight. I need some mother fucking sushi and I need a large quantity.  In front of my face.  In and/or around my mouth. Ok, no actually in my mouth. That’s what she said.

As I arrive home I realize no one is around and I am slightly sad for 10 minutes before I realize I am about to do an epic face plant in some sushi.  I order my sushi, whip off my sweaty clothes and fling them at the wall while singing.  What is it about no one being home that I immediately go – CLOTHES OFF, START SINGING, I ROCK.

Showaaaah time and I challenge myself to take a five minute and 28 second shower which is the length of Stir It Up by Bob Marley & The Wailers. Success! I am a fucking baller tonight – who knew?!

Get your sushi ass hole, it’s been 15 minutes and he said 10!  Oh I am totally wearing my slippers to go pick it up – it’s across the street and I proudly drag my feet the 20 ft to the restaurant.  Wait I’m singing out loud? WTF, when did that happen. The man walking in front of me looks back and gives me a quizzical look and I continue to sing with my eyes closed.  Yeah I don’t care.

Why do I have Turn Up The Music by Chris Brown in my head?! Oh yes, it was playing when I was busting open my knee caps doing a ‘Boom, boom, ha!’ whatever dance move that is…

Now that I am in my apartment alone, at the kitchen table – by myself, I realize I need to sing a song about my current situation – I can’t HELP myself. To the tune of ‘Turn Up The Music’.

“I’m eating sushi, a-lone in my kitchen. Where are my roommates?  Probably gettin’ drunk yeaahhhh.”

“I’m fucking hungry, eat another roll now. Where’s the wasabi?  Burn my nostrils good yeaahhh”

“Whooaaaoooaooooohhhhhhhh whoaaaooooaooooooohhhhh”

It could be worse I guess. I could be singing to a room full of cats while I dribble soy sauce down my over-sized kitty kat sweatsuit.