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You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am an independent web developer living in and around Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
You wake up at 10 til 10 the morning after, still drunk, feeling like someone punched you in the right kidney.
Overall you could say I had fun, but there were many parts of the evening that didn't turn out well at all.
Today at about noon, there was a woman walking down Clayton towards College Avenue. She was carrying a bottle of Powerade and looking uneasy. She walked very delicately.
At the corner, she suddenly stopped short. Her eyes got wide, and she put her hand to her mouth. It was a futile gesture; she vomited on the sidewalk, in full view of anyone near that intersection.
She turned her head away, wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her jean jacket, straightened herself, and kept walking as if nothing had happened.
Oh, I forgot to mention one thing. Read More »
I am not as young as I used to be.
This is a scary thing to be saying at the arguably young age of 21, but lately I sometimes feel like I am physically falling apart. Today while I was sitting on the bathroom floor, exercising my gag reflex, trying to get myself well enough to go to work, I thought over and over again two points that I've got to learn to take to heart:
These are easy things to think the day after. The night before I felt fine. Seriously. I thought I would sleep it off, easy as pie. I was wrong, and had to leave work early to keep from passing out—or worse, throwing up—on my keyboard. I came home, crashed on the couch and slept into the evening.
I feel like I lost a day. I might as well have blacked out.
Time for some real change.
Speaking of blacking out, I have to say that I do not remember writing this at all. What the hell was I doing awake at that time?
I had not intended to go out last night. I was going out, but the plan was not to “go out”—I was going to run down to Lunch Paper and see the Outfit play at about 9:30, then get some real food (as my body was reeling from eating cheesecake for breakfast and a small bowl of mashed potatoes for lunch), bring it home to eat and watch a movie. I was going to take it easy, maybe having a glass of Bailey's for dessert.
I don't know why I bother to construct plans for myself. I don't follow through with my own resolve.
Melissa called to ask me if I was bringing anyone with me (to gauge how big of a table we might need) and named off the existing members of the party thus far. One member was particulary of interest to me, and I decided I would not be returning home right after the show. So I made myself a small, quick sandwich, chomped it down while getting ready, brushed my teeth and was out the door.
[An aside: I somehow got out of paying the $3 cover at Lunch Paper. I'm not certain how; I just walked up the doorguy, said “Hey.” and he said “Hey.” and smiled and gestured for me to go inside, no id check or cover necessary. I have my suspicions why, however, and it bolstered my self esteem. Thankfully, it would be deflated again in a matter of minutes.]
I ordered my first Long Island and sat down with my group. We couldn't see the band (the set up of Lunch Paper is such that if people are standing in front of the “stage”, there is no way you are going to see the performance from any other part of the bar) but we grooved anyway. Emily, Greg and Danny threw Reese's Pieces at one another while Melissa and I watched. I protected my Long Island from target practice, but others were not so lucky with thier beverages, and soon there was candy in beer, which I imagine, doesn't actually taste that good.
“It's like babysitting children!” Melissa mused.
“Three drunk children.” I pointed out.
“Aw, my three drunk children.”
“You're such a great mom.”
After the set the four of us walked outside to meet Abie, and then the whole group walked back up Washington Street discussing what we should do now. No one had any good ideas, and we ended up standing at the corner of College and Washington, in front of the smoke shop, talking about how cold we all were and watching Emily, Danny, and Greg try to do handstands. Emily actually does a decent handstand, even after a Long Island Iced Tea.
Finally, I made a decision. We headed to Washington Street Tavern. We went in, and I went to use the restroom while everyone else went downstairs where it was (presumably) less crowded. I headed down there, hit the last step, was greeted with a definitely less-than-pleasant smell, and my whole group came towards me, declaring that they can't stay here. I concurred, and we walked back outside, way back to the other end of town to Flicker. At Flicker, I got a terribly made $7 Long Island, and we sat outside chatting it up. I stood against the railing, smoking. I finished my drink quickly and began (unconsciously, I swear) leaning towards the gentleman I'm interested in. He began (consciously, I'm sure) leaning away. This did not make me happy. You see, I was trying to re-enact some previous events involving this gentleman, and he was having none of it.
I foolishly held out hope as we headed to Room 13. I started a tab, bought myself my third Long Island, and then waltzed over to where my group was playing foosball, and attempted to buy the gentleman a drink. He declined. If it was obvious that nothing was going to happen before, it was definitive now. So I did as I've been conditioned to, and attempted to drown my sorrows. I bought another Long Island. I had barely started it when my group decided they we were leaving, so despite insistence that there was no need to finish it, I gulped the whole drink as my roommates watched in horror.
That is how Abie came to be sitting on the bathroom floor with me at 3:00 am. I wasn't so sick that my stomach was compelled to get the contents out, rather, I was compelled to get the contents out of my stomach, and did so by mostly by sheer will, but with the aid of a functioning gag reflex. Abie, further proving her qualification for sainthood, fed me water and crackers, brought me my pajamas, put up with my terrific moaning and talked to me for a long time until she was sure I was fit for bed. I continuously apologized for needing to be cared for and she pointed out that this was only the second time since we had been living together that I have been so sick I couldn't care for myself. This made me feel better, but not less rejected.
I'm going to be avoiding booze for at least a little while. This morning I woke up still feeling residual effects of three days of heavy drinking. I quiped to Abie in frustration, “My legs say, ‘I don't work!’ and I say ‘Yeah you do! I'm sober now, hello?!?’ My head's not drunk but my body refuses to accept it.”
It is 10 til 8:00 on Friday morning. Dehydrated, head pounding, I stumble into the kitchen to get water. As I pour a glass, Emily, who is about to head off to work, looks at me with concern, tilts her head and asks, “How do you feel?”
The first word I utter this morning comes out as a choked, low sound as I squint at her.
“Drunk.”
...
Thursday night I was invited out by coworkers (mainly, Neil) for drinks at Copper Creek. I arrived a little after 8:00, with Abie and the Indian in tow, and ordered something they brew in-house at Copper Creek, an Abbey Ale. Abbey Ales are fruity, dark and deliciously deceptive: even though it is printed clearly on the sign touting house beers, one soon forgets that it contains 7.9% alcohol. By the time our party had moved out to the patio area, I had consumed three, plus the half of Abie's she had been unable to finish (“I'm just not a big beer drinker!” she had proclaimed).
Hilarity ensued.
I remember:
After I finished my fourth (and ½) Abbey Ale, at about 11:30 the group split, with Neil and Tyler off to the 40 Watt and myself and my crüe off to Tastyworld for Bain Mattox. Sam Deeds was there, as were my roommates Alli and Catie, my sister Sarah, and Heather and Rob (who are delightful, but officially belong to Abie I think).
The Indian buys me more beer. I protest that I don't need anymore. He pulls the “I'm not asking, I'm telling!” form of best friend manipulation. I cave. I have a lot more to drink, but am never so drunk that I fail to get served at the bar.
The Indian forces me to waltz with him during one number, and I step on his feet a lot as we bump into everyone around us. This did not make us popular, I think.
At the end of the show, I spend long amounts of time praising Bain and his bandmates on their most excellent performance, and then have the audacity to quiz him on my name. Very confidently he blurts out “Abie.” I smile and correct him. He feels bad, and then I feel bad for making him feel bad. I tell both Bain and Brian at separate times that they are the cute one in the band, both while they are standing right there. I monopolize their time.
It's amazing what some people will put up with when it comes to their fans.
After saying goodbyes I make it home, drink a couple glasses of water, and decide that I'll be okay for class and work at 9 am. Obviously, I was wrong.
...
dude (6:31:37 PM): you have a rough morning?
me (6:32:04 PM): yes. yes I did.
me (6:32:33 PM): still drunk this morning actually
dude (6:32:41 PM): lovely
dude (6:32:46 PM): yeah you were pretty plowed
me (6:33:40 PM): I wasn't that bad, was I?
dude (6:34:28 PM): hahahahaha
dude (6:35:04 PM): :) you were tolerable :)
me (6:35:14 PM): tolerable
me (6:35:29 PM): what every girl wants to hear, that she is tolerable :)
dude (6:35:34 PM): hahaha
me (6:36:28 PM): well I meant all that stuff about being glad to see you, even if I did say it 45 times
dude (6:36:56 PM): hahaha
dude (6:37:32 PM): i wonder
dude (6:37:51 PM): if we as humans have a drunk memory section in our brains
dude (6:38:08 PM): you know how sometimes when you're drunk you don't remember what happened
dude (6:38:25 PM): well what if you got drunk again and then made an effort to think about it again
dude (6:38:28 PM): would you remember?
me (6:38:33 PM): hmmmm
me (6:38:49 PM): I don't know
me (6:39:02 PM): I usually don't have memory problems when I'm drunk
So I lied, but I didn't know I was lying at the time, I swear.
Last Thursday night I went to see Will Hoge play at Tastyworld. He played everything I wanted to hear. I danced a lot, and sang along at the appropriate parts. I got drunk. Really, really drunk. I officially introduced myself to the Tastyworld bartenders, even though they have known my face and my drink for quite a while now. Julie and Jason both praised me at different times for being such a wonderful, easy to deal with customer. I felt special.
Talking to Will after the show I felt like a not-so-responsible music geek, because I had to inquire into the interludes/breakdowns during “Sweet Magdeline”.
“Led Zeppelin — ‘How Many More Times’, and the Beatles — ‘Helter Skelter’.”
“Led Zeppelin.”
“Yes — I'll tell you what you do. You go out, you buy Zeppelin I and II.”
“I and II. You know, I have IV.”
“No no no — by IV, they were into to much of that devil shit. This is pure solid rock n roll. So, you listen for about 2 weeks.”
“2 weeks.”
“That's about how long it really takes. Then you go out and buy a DVD called How the West Was Won. You'll love it. Then email me and tell me how it changed your life, because it will change your life.”
“It'll change my life.”
“Yes ma'am.”
“I have to tell you, I got into Otis Redding a few years ago because of how much you talked about him.”
“See, I've never led you astray.”
“Never.”
I did the fangirl thing, waiting outside in the back while those chuckleheads loaded their gear, and then ended up at IHOP with Will, his new tour manager Russell, and four random girls. We entertained the waitresses. I annoyed everyone with the drunken laughing and carrying on.
I got home at about 5:30 am. I don't remember falling asleep, but I do remember waking up to my alarm, still drunk, feeling like I hadn't slept at all, abso-fucking-lutely amazed it was 8 am already. I seriously could not believe it. I was sure there was some malfunction on my alarm clock, and I checked it against my cell phone. Unbelievable! I thought. Did I even sleep?
I went to class and sat there for about 20 minutes, staring at the slides, hearing the teacher, before I realized that my drunkness was quickly turning into a hangover and I didn't know what the hell was going on in the class itself. I got up, out, and walked to work in the bright morning.
The first couple of hours at work seemed to take My Entire Life. At one point I realized I had been staring at my monitor for 15 minutes, mouth slightly agape, eyes glossed over. I clocked out, went home, and took a nap for lunch.
That night I went to bed just after 10 pm, and slept til noon the next day. I got up and padded around the house in my pjs, made food, and contemplated traveling to Smith's to see Will Hoge. Yes, again. The kicker was when Tessa posted in her livejournal that she had a plus one that someone could take advantage of. I called her up, and I had a free ticket that I couldn't back out of. It was etched in stone.
With that decision made, I drove into Atlanta, by myself, for the first time ever. I got all the way to Smith's without getting lost and without getting freaked out by traffic on 85 (although I did nearly get slammed into by a little white muscle car trying to get into my lane on the right and totally not paying attention to where his rear end was, but I honked at his stupid ass and he backed off).
Will Hoge rocked so hardcore. I almost died when he broke out a Will classic interlude, “Let's Get It On”, during “Sweet Magdeline”, which I'm pretty sure was a surprise to everyone in the room, including the rest of the band. That transported me back to the best part of being 18. The only thing more magical was when the band left the stage, and when the crowd called for a encore, Jeff, the keyboard player, came up by himself, and started playing “Carousel”. The house lights came up, and Will appeared from nowhere in the back of the room and sang the whole song sans-microphone. It was even magic when he realized he had the wrong harmonica and hollered at their old manager, Cliffy, to bring him the correct one.
Will, smiling, “I know this is very awkward, but I promise I'll make it up to ya.”
They closed out the show with a bang, and afterward everyone milled about in typical fankid fashion, until they kicked us out on the street, where Will hung out and took pictures and warned people before hugging him that he was ridiculously sweaty. That's what you get from rocking out so hard.
I hung around long enough to realize I was way tired, and starving, and essentially by myself in Atlanta. It was time to go home. I left Smith's an exactly 3:30, and pulled up in front of my apartment at exactly 4:30. You might say I made excellent time.
I passed out in my bed at about 5:30 am, after having some eats and talking briefly to a half-awake Abie. I slept for about 12 hours. I got up and did typical Sunday things: cut coupons, watched movies, annoyed my roommates with my total inability to self-schedule at all. I then doped myself up and went back to sleep around midnight.
What do I love? Feeling really rested, and ready to rock n roll again.
me [14:42] we're pretty goofy
N [14:43] yes, yes we are, but we are fun!
The weekend was a total whirlwind. I spent a whole lot of it either drunk or hungover, but always, always having a good time. I strengthened a friendship, went to a few shows, ate lots of yummy things that I didn't have to cook, went to a keg party, did tons of laundry, cleaned my room, met new people, got lots of free booze, cleaned up lots of spilt beer, and vomited, quite a number of times.
It was very busy.
What follows is perhaps the only story from the weekend I can tell in a public forum:
Let's set the scene. Our hero, Jenna, is sitting in her neighbor's apartment, at least 11 beers in, at the foot of a bed. She is passively people watching.
A very unattractive young frat boy seats himself next to her.
Curtain.
“How's your day, Jenna?”
“Ahhh...” Sighs. Gives him sleepy puppy look.
“That good, huh?”
“Well, long story short: was out until 5 o'clock this morning, and am now drinking Powerade dosed with Morning Relief Alka-Seltzer”
“Ah. Good times.”
“Yeah.” [long pause as actual work goes on] “It's funny; when I stay out late and drink too much, I wake up hungover, but I always make it to work on time.”
“Hmm. Maybe you should do that more often.”
“Yeah, I think so.”
Last night was my friend Richard's 21st birthday.
Although I “really didn't seem that drunk at all” last night, today I got much use out of the hangover kit Melissa gave me for my 21st birthday last week, and spent a large part of the afternoon sitting in a hot bath eating crackers and sipping spring water.
I got out and slept in the living room for a long time, then went out to dinner with my parents, who quickly figured out why I was asleep everytime they called.
“Were you out all night?”
“No, I just don't feel very well.”
“Are you hungover?”
“What time are you guys getting here?”
“We're on our way downtown right now. Are you hungover?”
“Yes.”
“Do you still want to come have dinner with us?”
“Yes, yes, I'm fine.”
“Where were you last night?”
“My friend Richard's birthday party.”
“Oh. What—”
“Mom, I'm putting on my shoes and coming downstairs right now, okay?”
I get in the car with Mom, Dad, and Uncle David, and I have to detail what I was drinking (Southern Comfort) and what I mixed it with (cranberry juice). Then they all proceeded to faux-lecture me on the dangers of sweet drinks for giving one hangovers.
However, it was less about scolding me and more about living through me vicariously. And, there is always this gem of parental wisdom:
“If you had been smoking pot, you know, you wouldn't be hungover.”
Thanks, Dad.
Mom wanted to buy me a beer when we were out to dinner, and when I expressed a complete lack of desire to drink anything but water, I was assaulted by several exclamations of “Hair of the dog that bit ya!”, the idea that actually drinking more alcohol helps to get rid of hangovers. While I know this is based on some very sound anecdotal evidence, I myself pretty much see it as a get-back-on-the-horse mantra for alcoholics.
And like the t-shirt says: I'm not an alcoholic, I'm a professional drunk. Alcoholics go to meetings.
You are reading the life, times, and general musings of Jenna Tollerson. I am an independent web developer living in and around Athens, Georgia, USA. [read more]
