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Narcissists
Last night is probably best explained in retrospect, starting from about nine thirty this morning when Claire arrived at my door wanting to know what she'd done last night. "Was I horrible?"
"You were pissed."
"Really pissed?"
"Really, really pissed."
This ascertained, she went to sleep on my bed while I tended to the sort of headache that comes from sleeping twelve hours in three days, having a full-blown essay crisis, writing 2500 words in one go, taking far, far too many Pro Plus tablets and finally, drinking. Red wine and vodka doubles, because we went to Narcissists at Baby Love and that is as much as anyone can really remember. I remember the place, which is gorgeous; it's a rustic, dim-lit old bar-type thing upstairs (with pot plants? I remember pot plants) and a dingy, pretty, fairy-lights-everywhere place to dance downstairs. I remember being absolutely convinced I shouldn't go, because as mentioned before, tired, so tired, out of my skull, etc, etc, but fairly skipping down Turl Street at the thought of going out dancing. It was what I called "a mood of perversity and self-destruction."
The guy in front of us at the bar ordered three fairly complex cocktails, so we were stood there for quite a while, but not long enough to realise that they only served doubles. I hate doubles. But I had one anyway, and drank it far too fast, and then we went downstairs, found barstools, and when the music got good, danced. Claire claims that her memory goes blank here. Once curled up on my bed, her voice drifted out lugubriously across the room. "I met Sam downstairs."
"Yes," I said neutrally, looking for my calculator.
"He said there was pole dancing."
"You don't remember the pole dancing?"
"Oh, shit."
To be fair, no-one was really looking at the pole. We all got dragged there by this girl whose name I can't remember but came from Brasenose, and Sam. This is not one of the PPE Sams - he's a historian whom I have fancied the arse off ever since I first saw him, and last week Claire told me happily that he's broken up with his girlfriend - and sadly for me, Brasenose Girl was all over him. This irritated Pat, and I got to think that it's probably a good thing she's on my side. Because no-one can resist Pat when she really gets going, and by virtue of some very impressive Brazilian-hip-swinging, she made it so the moment Brasenose Girl got close to Sam, he got suddenly and terminally distracted. When he departed homewards at about one, she'd just about given up on him. In the meantime, Pat was happily buying beer and basking in the fumes of jealousy. I really, really love her, I've decided.
Claire had meanwhile met another CAAH girl at the bar (whom she texted this morning, to apologise for talking such total bollocks) and by about two-ish, I was feeling more or less dead. I was asleep on my feet, regardless of the music and the smoke and the dancing; I figured it was time to leave. At the time I thought I must be drunk, but in hindsight I probably wasn't, because I behaved entirely rationally, getting home without incident and remembering to drink three glasses of water before bed. I think I was just overtired, stressed and tipsy. Getting out of bed in time for lectures was not fun, especially as Claire took the chance to get into my vacated bed.
After a while, she asked: "Are you still here?"
"It's my goddamn room!"
But she had a point. I went to a stats lecture, which was an abject waste of time - the lecturer didn't seem to know how to switch on a laptop, despite the fact she was supposed to be teaching us how to use Excel - and missed Morison and Pooley for the first time ever, choosing instead to come back to college and turf Claire out of my bed. She has departed to go back to sleep in her own bed, and I think I need to do some actual work. Last night was actually fun; it's two weeks until the next one, so we may have recovered enough to go to it.
Have just remembered something else. The toilets at Baby Love are labelled "Dicks" and "Pussies". Hmmm.
"You were pissed."
"Really pissed?"
"Really, really pissed."
This ascertained, she went to sleep on my bed while I tended to the sort of headache that comes from sleeping twelve hours in three days, having a full-blown essay crisis, writing 2500 words in one go, taking far, far too many Pro Plus tablets and finally, drinking. Red wine and vodka doubles, because we went to Narcissists at Baby Love and that is as much as anyone can really remember. I remember the place, which is gorgeous; it's a rustic, dim-lit old bar-type thing upstairs (with pot plants? I remember pot plants) and a dingy, pretty, fairy-lights-everywhere place to dance downstairs. I remember being absolutely convinced I shouldn't go, because as mentioned before, tired, so tired, out of my skull, etc, etc, but fairly skipping down Turl Street at the thought of going out dancing. It was what I called "a mood of perversity and self-destruction."
The guy in front of us at the bar ordered three fairly complex cocktails, so we were stood there for quite a while, but not long enough to realise that they only served doubles. I hate doubles. But I had one anyway, and drank it far too fast, and then we went downstairs, found barstools, and when the music got good, danced. Claire claims that her memory goes blank here. Once curled up on my bed, her voice drifted out lugubriously across the room. "I met Sam downstairs."
"Yes," I said neutrally, looking for my calculator.
"He said there was pole dancing."
"You don't remember the pole dancing?"
"Oh, shit."
To be fair, no-one was really looking at the pole. We all got dragged there by this girl whose name I can't remember but came from Brasenose, and Sam. This is not one of the PPE Sams - he's a historian whom I have fancied the arse off ever since I first saw him, and last week Claire told me happily that he's broken up with his girlfriend - and sadly for me, Brasenose Girl was all over him. This irritated Pat, and I got to think that it's probably a good thing she's on my side. Because no-one can resist Pat when she really gets going, and by virtue of some very impressive Brazilian-hip-swinging, she made it so the moment Brasenose Girl got close to Sam, he got suddenly and terminally distracted. When he departed homewards at about one, she'd just about given up on him. In the meantime, Pat was happily buying beer and basking in the fumes of jealousy. I really, really love her, I've decided.
Claire had meanwhile met another CAAH girl at the bar (whom she texted this morning, to apologise for talking such total bollocks) and by about two-ish, I was feeling more or less dead. I was asleep on my feet, regardless of the music and the smoke and the dancing; I figured it was time to leave. At the time I thought I must be drunk, but in hindsight I probably wasn't, because I behaved entirely rationally, getting home without incident and remembering to drink three glasses of water before bed. I think I was just overtired, stressed and tipsy. Getting out of bed in time for lectures was not fun, especially as Claire took the chance to get into my vacated bed.
After a while, she asked: "Are you still here?"
"It's my goddamn room!"
But she had a point. I went to a stats lecture, which was an abject waste of time - the lecturer didn't seem to know how to switch on a laptop, despite the fact she was supposed to be teaching us how to use Excel - and missed Morison and Pooley for the first time ever, choosing instead to come back to college and turf Claire out of my bed. She has departed to go back to sleep in her own bed, and I think I need to do some actual work. Last night was actually fun; it's two weeks until the next one, so we may have recovered enough to go to it.
Have just remembered something else. The toilets at Baby Love are labelled "Dicks" and "Pussies". Hmmm.
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I'm not sure if this icon applies, but I've been hanging on to it literally for months without anything to use it on.
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This post made me laugh, I have to say. *pets carefully*
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Thats the sort of thing I'd giggle about each month for the rest of my life with my brother. Come to think of it, I may :D
Why Yes I Am Immature :D
xx
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at any rate, turn 21, come to america, and drink with me! or uhm.. well i suppose i could go over there too but [sarcasm] i'm having far too much fun at community college. (a/k/a the 13th grade.)
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"It's my goddamn room!"
*giggles* I have had this exchange FAR too many times. And been on both sides of it...
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