Man, my blog has been kinda depressing lately. You guys can’t see my jazz hands right now…(and if you can, get out of my garden)
…so I will have to tell you guys a funny/embarrassing story to make up for all my gloom lately. And also, in the words of Homer Simpson:
For those of you who didn’t read yesterday’s post (you better have a note from a parent/guardian), I am back on my meds for epilepsy. I’m okay with this now, but the first time I was put on my meds, I was much less accepting. I was in college, where the extent of my responsibility was remembering to change the batteries in the remote control (seriously, that was my designated household job).
My life consisted of trying to convince myself to go to lectures, and drinking. My friends and I had an excuse for everyday of the week: There was Monday Club, Let’s Get Tanked Tuesday, W**kered Wednesday, Let’s Get Tanked…Again Thursday, F*ck It, Let’s Do It Again Friday, and then somehow I managed a part time job at the weekend.
When I was diagnosed with temporal lobe epilepsy (surprisingly not connected with my drinking), it was a massive inconvenience. I knew the partying would have to stop. I knew it, but it took a while to accept it.
It was the first month of me taking my meds and it happened to be the biggest and most drunken week of the year: RAG Week. In Irish universities, this is basically one crazy week of doing nothing but partying. Or, you know, another week in the life of a college student. Anyway, my friends were all attending a really cool party in a new club in the city, and I really wanted to go. If it was now, I would just go sober (I have realised that you can have lots of fun sober, namely insulting the crap out of people you don’t like without them noticing) but it was back when I was an immature party-obsessed lunatic. Glad that’s changed *awkward silence*
Anyway, I wasn’t sure if I could drink or not. My medication made me quite drowsy and I was imagining myself curled into a ball in some dark corner of a dingy club. So I did the incredibly mature thing and I rang my consultant neurologist. The conversation went something like this.
Me: Hi Mr. —, I’m just wondering if I can drink whilst on my meds.
Consultant: Well, a glass or two of wine wouldn’t do any harm, but-
Me: Excellent. Thanks!
Consultant: But Jane-
And of course, that was my cue to excitedly hang up and break out the peach schnapps.
As we all excitedly got ready together,
knocking back shots of Mickey Finns, I didn’t feel much different to how I normally felt while drinking. Terrible balance and coordination? Check. Urge to sing karaoke? Check? Desire to tell everyone how I want to have a wolf pack? Check.
But after about an hour…that all changed. At first, I started to feel giddy. All of a sudden, everything was HILARIOUS. The pattern on my carpet, my best friend’s face, the word Rioja (okay, that’s legit funny).
By the time we got to our first pub, I was hyper. I mean, really really hyper.
I mean Ric Flair hyper
All I wanted to do was dance. And not normal dance. Crazy dance. Robot, karate-Macarena (it’s a thing I invented) and garden sprinkler; they were all there. Here is basically my dancing face, except slightly less Asian:
If you knew me in person, you’d know that none of this is particularly unusual for me when I’ve had a few drinks. But that wasn’t all that happened. Then I got really weird. Somehow, someway, I was convinced that the bouncer was my father. I was actually convinced that my dad was somehow moonlighting as club security. Imagine the bouncer’s surprise when I came bounding over for a hug. My friends tell me that I screeched “Daaaaaaad!” as I skipped towards him, but I’d like to forget that ever happened. What happened next is a little foggy, but I do remember telling him that I wouldn’t tell Mam, and that if he needed any help with rowdy clubbers, I had his back. I’ve always imagined some bewildered bouncer out there believes he has a long lost drunken daughter out there somewhere.
Next, I got the idea in to my head that all my friends, and the new friends we’d acquired that night, were all deserving of pizza or “pizza love” as I called it. So I silently took off to the pizzeria across the road and somehow managed to order three giant pepperoni pizzas. I brought them back through the back door of the club. I imagine me coming back to my friends like this:
The madness doesn’t end there. I had made BFFs with a gay guy, and we decided it would just be hilarious to swap clothes. So he’s now wearing my short shorts and blouse and I’m wearing his over-sized David Hasselhoff tshirt and beanie hat. I really want to believe that there was surfer shorts, and to save my own embarrassment, let’s say there was.
Just to paint the scene for you, I arrived home to Jack that night (who had to study for an exam) in a trolley, wearing boy’s clothes. I may or may not have been holding a pizza box and been almost violently possessive over it.
There is more to the saga of my fuzzy night, but for the sake of my dignity…oh who am I kidding? That’s long gone. Okay, for the sake of brevity, I’m going to stop now.
It’s funny how times change. Tonight, I’m watching a Neil deGrasse Tyson lecture while playing patty cake with my cat. I guess that’s what happens when you grow up. But if anyone ever wants to go on a pizza/tequila/trolley binge, I’m always game.