K. So disclaimer, this was a very lonely time period of my life. I enjoyed drinking more than sleeping, and I just wanted boys to love me. I still do, but not as much, and I really donât give as many shits about it.
Alright, anyway. So, I guess this was Fall, a couple of years ago. My punctuation skills are so terrible right now, whatever. But okay, it was Fall, I think, and I went to a friends apartment in the city with another one of my friends. I had no intentions of getting wasted, honestly, and so I wore a tube top.
Two things about tube tops and me:
The drunker I am, the more likely I will often forget to pull them up. One time a night ended in me losing my bra out of my tube top, and playing soccer with it, then waking up under a table the next day holding my bra like it was my infant child.
Another thing about tube tops: If I am wasted, and wearing a tube top, you will definitely see my boobs that night.
So hereâs me, in a tube top, not thinking I am going to get drunk, standing in my friends kitchen, just nonchalantly drinking. Did I eat that day? I donât remember. So oops. Now out of me and the two friends I was with, I am usually the drunken asshole. I am that friend who sleeps in your car on occasion, I am that friend who sleeps in the fake plants in Atlantic City casinos, and I am that friend that sometimes cannot control her bladder, especially when she sleeps.
Let me just tell you right now that this night essentially ended the following morning, in McDonalds. I had pee soaked clothes, 5 hash browns in my mouth, and two old ladies staring at me like I just killed all of their children, and told them they couldnât play Bridge on Monday anymore.
Anyway, rewind back to the kitchen at my friends house in the city, Iâm drinking, most likely more than I should, and getting hammered. My friends, of course, are more sober than me. I donât remember the specifics of where we went, but my memory does kick in as to where I ended up in the later parts of the night. It was me, and letâs call him Fernando, at the sketchiest bar/strip club in the entire city. I was wasted, I donât remember how drunk he was, and I was ordering drinks with a strippers boobs in my face. I was also told that I should come out for Amateur night by the manager, and I was so drunk that I think I agreed.
I went outside for a cigarette, Fernando followed, and this is where I began to sloppily make out with his face, and slam him into the brick walls outside. I donât remember this, thank goodness, but the visual itself is enough to suffice for me. After I made out with him, we went back to his apartment since over the course of the night I had lost my two friends, and was just left with this guy.
I donât remember being in his apartment at all. I woke up in the morning, confused as to where I was, how I got there, and why I felt like I had just gotten out of the shower. NOPE. I didnât, I just peeâd myself in this dudes bed, thatâs all. He wasnât in there, I learned later that he just gave me his bed since I apparently collapsed into it like a dead person, and never moved til the morning. So he wasnât in there, Iâm thinking in my head âFucccckkkk, I am soaked, this dudes bed is soaked, Iâm also really hungry, and I donât even care about this dudes bed, where are my friends?â So my friends are friends with Fernando, and they actually walk into his bedroom. I frantically cover my pee spot with a blanket, and try to use my hands to hide my wet shirt, but before I could even blink one of my friends asks me why my clothes are soaked⌠I say nothing. Or at least thatâs what I remember. Then once we got to the car I told them both that I peeâd myself, and to not tell Fernando.
They didnât tell him a thing.
I sat at that McDonalds, forcing hash brown, after hash brown into my mouth, all while those old ladies stared at me, and I DIDNâT GIVE A FUCK.
He slept in that bed for a week before deciding to wash his sheets.
When he did finally notice, thatâs when shit got hilarious. He had chalked the weird smell in his bed to me just sweating a lot. Upon hearing this, I was in Atlantic City, a little tipsy, and torn between which was actually worse. A guy thinking that I sweat so much that it would make his bed stink, or just consuming so much alcohol that I pee'd myself in bed sometimes? (Yeah, this hasnât been the only incident, but usually I am alone so I will never spill whose beds are ruined)
I drunkenly asked some strangers, and friends which was worse: A girl that sweats the bed or a girl who wets your bed? This question still is and will always be known as âThe Great Debate.â Most people choose peeing. I decided that sweating was worse. It seriously is. Wouldnât you rather just pee once or twice in massive quantities as opposed to sweating so much every day that you ENTIRELY soak a mattress? So I text him and it was a little like thisâŚ
Him: âYour friends said you peeâd but I was like nah.â
Him: âYou sweated in my bed.â
Him: âWait my friends said you peeâd but I didnât believe them?â
Me: âWelllllll yeaaah that happened thoughâ
I forget the rest of the conversation. I never cared, and still donât, that this guy definitely still sleeps on his pee sprinkled mattress. He has a forever shitty nickname in my phone, that I will never change, and I think I ruined his life. He soon started dating women with satanic offspring. Whatever. At least it saved me a trip to the bathroom, and I got some awesome hash browns out of it.
