Cubicle Chatter

Sloppy Sauce: The Nightmare

Shortly after graduating the shit show that was My five-year experience at college, I was lucky enough to get offered a job. However, not lucky enough to  live on my own in a city where I knew anyone. Hence the stereo typical saga: Post college kid moves back into his parent’s house. I always said I wouldn’t do it but alas here we are, the 23-year-old post grad with his parents as roommates.

Living with your parents, you really have to take advantage of your chances to get wild. After all, your new found roommates don’t appreciate you coming home blackout and treating  their IKEA couch like a urinal. Sorry mom. Anyways, on with the fucking story. After a long strenuous week, I decided I’m going to visit a few buddies who live geographically 30 minutes away from my parents, my beloved roommates.

A drunken Friday night carried over into a drunken Saturday morning brunch. From there, the next thing I knew it was dusk. The drunken inebriated stumble took over me. At one point I glanced at my phone thinking it was 2 a.m., it was 6:15 p.m. That’s a strong indication your night will not end well. Darkness overcame me.

Next thing I know; I hear this voice. “Hey you! Yeah you!”  Dad, is that you? Dazed and confused, my eyes open. There I was, hurled over like the hunch back of Norte Dame, sitting curbside at a random motel being yelled at by a middle aged man in a blue mini van. “I’m coming back for you!” at first, I thought, oh good, my Uber is here. Except he was stagnantly aggressive as he pointed his finger at me and drove off. What in the fuck is happening? As I reach for my phone, I realize it is missing. Next my self awareness kicks in as I realize I am bleeding everywhere, my forehead was gashed open. Evidently I had face planted on a curb.  No phone, battered face, it’s pitch black in a city I have no familiarity with, hell of a night.  To think with the glass half full, I some how did retain my debit card but as you can probably guess, my wallet itself was  MIA. Fuck it, guess I’ll try to retrace my steps and walk around. Not a soul was around, just me alone with my thoughts.

As I begin to shuffle through the city, anxiety starts kicking in. HOW THE FUCK AM I GOING TO GET HOME! WHERE IS MY PHONE? WHERE IS MY WALLET? At this point I am beyond exhausted and figure, I just need to sleep it off and figure out the rest in the morning. I began to walk in and out of what must have been a dozen hotels begging them to take me in. Humor me here and imagine being a hotel clerk watching a 23-year-old half-drunken behemoth crawl in, bleeding in an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt. Like Mary being denied a stay at the inn, I was denied service at any and all hotels.

Back to the battalion march I went. After about an hour of just walking around, I run into a character who sounds like a fucking maraca with the amount of  pills he had in his pockets. He began to give me the tour of a life time showing me the premium spots to slumber. From sturdy benches, hearty bushes to covered parks we scouted out the best spots to sleep. The guy began to really creep me out, like buffalo bill wake up as a lamp shade creep out. I imitated my best NFL combine and took off in a full-blown sprint away from what could have been a Silence of the Lambs in the making. At this point, my thought process is, find a pay phone, call my mom, have her pick me up and she’ll force me to see a counselor Monday morning. I scratched that idea and decided I would sleep it off in a bush. As I pried open what looked like a safe haven, I found 2 people already sleeping in there. Enough. I’m getting home. I walked into a hotel, once I was already denied at and sat on the couch and began to sleep in the lobby. The desk jockey guarding what you would have thought was the gates of Mordor tried to unravel my plans. I firmly said: “Look sir, you have two options. Option 1: You call me a cab and I leave your establishment. Option 2: You don’t call me a cab. I drunkenly sleep on your fine sofa, bleed to high hell all the while scaring off all your guests. You’re going to need the coast guard to yank me out of here. I’m not leaving! Choice is yours.”

 

He chose option 1. Fucking finally.

As I sat awaiting my chariot , a young women approached me. “Do you work here?” Do I work here? Do I fucking work here? Yeah, the drunk guy bleeding all over the lobby sofa at 5:16 a.m. is employed here. Really, no correlation to the climax of this story but felt that idiotic question was needed. Fast forward 30 minutes. I barged into the taxi cab, I finally made it, survived what was the worse night of my life. “Where we headed son?”  it dawned on me, I have no idea where my buddy I was visiting lived. I can’t catch a fucking break. All I had to go off of was he lived about a mile from a dog track. To the dog track it was. From there I used Orion’s belt to guide me back to the elusive apartment. After running a mile which took me all of 16 minutes to complete, I had reached the gates of heaven: The apartment.Of course, I did not know the code to get through the gate. So here I am, 23 years old scaling the side of a fucking apartment building at 6:45 a.m.

After pulling off some Tom Clancy shit to sneak into this building, I busted open the apartment door to find my buddy casually drinking coffee and reading the morning paper enjoying a bowl of cereal. “Good morning brother, how was your night?” Oh don’t you brother me you son of a bitch.

I could continue on with this sad saga and tell you all about the after math of me playing tug of war with a toothless woman from Tuscaloosa fighting over my I phone the next day but I don’t want to hinder you with any more of you time. As I walked into my parent’s home that following night, my roommates ask, “Have a good weekend?” *Scoffs: Wouldn’t you like to know. Welcome to post fucking grad. Peep the pictures below.

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