He Said She Said: Did I Actually Do That?
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He Said She Said: Did I Actually Do That?

2005_01_28heshe.gifRemember that time you drank rye out of a funnel and tried to fight someone with your genitals? Or how about when you woke up in an abandoned apartment? Take solace in the fact we all have our moments, albeit some more inebriated than others. And enthusiastic Torontoist scribes Paige and Adrian are no different.
After their Friday column is submitted, and their bedrooms are clean, the pair head out to their respective watering holes with almost predictable results. The next morning’s memories, though, is where this week’s issue lies – and lies all day until the next night. Here are some of the toxic routines of the Torontoist writers…

The Post-Bar Breakdown
As someone who can be easily convinced to go out drinking on any given
night, I have racked up a fair amount of interesting and intriguing
post-partying experiences. Actually, I would consider the
after-bar-routine to be more like my body running on an auto-pilot
motivated by drunken desires and random thoughts, but I’ll let you be
the judge of that…
sweats.bmpThe Sweatpants:
If I am going to get all swanky for a night out, I need to have the
promise of comfort when I get home. The stilettos get thrown across the room the moment I walk in my front door and I usually have my pants off before I get up the stairs. (I live with girls; random drunknakedness is acceptable.) Once I am in the comfort of sweatpants then the post-bar fun can continue. Unless of course, another distraction calls to me…
The MSN:
Oh MSN! Why must you always provide me with the means to communicate to people (read: guys) when I am in my most-honest and most-randy mindset? So first I have to find out if crush-du-jour is online, and then message him something my drunk mind believes is witty and alluring. After all, accepting late night propositions is the best addition to any post-bar routine. With the sultry “heyyy” booty-call
message out of the way I can then go on to messaging every other person on my list. (Poor Adrian, somehow he always gets bombarded with my drunken screams and statements!) But I must thank my roommates, because just as I reach the point of considering messaging old hook-ups, they somehow know. And my presence is demanded at the
post-bar-party in the living room.
The Pot:
I like the pot, but drunken Paige likes the pot even more, despite knowing that it makes me dizzy, sleepy, and overall sloppy. And so despite better judgment, someone in my house rolls a joint and the first fifteen minutes of stoned are always fun. The TV plays an old OC or Sex and the City episode, and the kitchen calls to me.
The Food:
No matter how much I want my Mary-Kate inspired diet to work, there is no way I will not eat after the bar. Once I have the idea of eating stuck in my head, I have to make it happen. Even if I am so drunk that I am unable to see straight I will still haul out the George Foreman and make grilled cheese. And then leave all my mess in the kitchen as I stumble back up to my room, because by this point the weed is making the room spin and perhaps my crush has MSNed me back…
paige.gifThe Bathroom:
I do not vomit. It takes a lot of drinking (per say, a 26er of Malibu downed in less than sixty minutes after a day of not eating…) to make me barf. Instead I have other means of calming the dizziness and awful feelings that rise around 3:30am: I sit on my toilet and “rest” with my head in my lap. Honestly, if you have never experienced the comfort of sleeping hunched over, you must try it. I think it has something to do with the fact that it’s procrastination from getting ready for bed. If I am resting on my lap I don’t have to take out my contacts or brush my teeth- that all will happen once I get up and commit to going to bed. Plus the bathroom is such a cool, serene environment. It’s so nice I could just.. stay… there… for….
The 6am Wakeup:
Oh. Dear. God. I am half-dressed and sprawled across my bathroom floor (this year I have an en suite; last year my roommates would have to wake me up and possibly witness my naked, drunken self) because I passed out. Now I have to peel out my aching contact lenses and stumble to my bed, ignoring the multiple flashing MSN replies. I also have to set my alarm clock, because what would a night at the bar be without having something terribly important to do the next day?
The Morning After:
In all honesty, there are some mornings after drinking when I feel fantastic. And there are others where I wake up still drunk and want to kill the driver of the loudly-idling delivery truck parked next door. But always I wake up with less than thirty minutes to get to class, and so I have to be creative and quick: Find an outfit to wear which is comfortable but doesn’t scream hangover. Make my messy bar-hair look less dirt and more styled. And put my contacts back in so I can wear my huge sunglasses on the walk to class (avoiding direct sunlight is absolutely necessary). But then I get distracted by my laptop, because I notice the MSN messages from last night, including an equally-sultry reply from my crush, sent moments after I passed out on my bathroom floor. Sigh. Such is the nature of the after-bar experience.
The Human Body behaves very interestingly in its time of need. At the conclusion of a night out on the town, we almost instinctively operate under a quite predictable routine.
The problem however, lies in the aftermath. The unavoidable anxiety surrounding the question of – What the ‘F’ did I do last night?
There are so many issues that must be addressed before I can begin my day. My first question is always whether or not I visited the coat check when steppin out da club? This is generally followed up with a two-part wallet check… A) Do I have my wallet? B) What’s left in said wallet?
walrus.gifAssuming we’ve made it this far without problems, I am now left wondering what is that unfortunate taste in my mouth? I assure myself that there is zero chance I actually made-out with my puppy at any point during the prior evening. Then it hits me… Gyros! My arch nemesis. Like Paige said, no diet can withhold the post-bar gluttony. “Oh God, I feel as fat as a walrus, what was I thinking?”
barney-adrian.gifJust when my stress is finally starting to subdue, I check my cellphone and notice the plethora of ‘Dialed Calls’ with call-times in excess of 10 minutes. Unlike Paige (the MSN Assassin), I stick to the old fashioned method of the telephone call. It’s both more dangerous and intense. Always the highest stress moment as I think of what I might’ve conversed with some unfortunate female. This is clearly the most frequently unsolved mystery of my evening, as I generally never find out what I actually said. This can really come back to haunt me, as young girls are left to trust my ‘Charming-Drunken’ word.
After this is the afternoon of discussions. My associates and I start comparing notes on the previous evening’s events. This always leads to an abundance of head-slaps as I realize the additional bonehead maneuvers I pulled. That’s alright, everyone’s an idiot when they’re out right?
As for waking up in strange places? That’s a whole post in itself. I’ll just say that in that brief moment between waking-up and opening my eyes, I say a little prayer in hopes that I am at home in my own bed… by myself!