You know it’s been a good few days when you find yourself standing alone in the dark kitchen of a friend’s apartment having just extinguished the lights over the heads of your sleeping friends who are piled like puppies on the couches and floor and all you want to do is keep standing there forever enjoying the sense of nostalgia for a moment that is still all around you like the thick heady scent of unbathed dong.
It was that kind of weekend.
The kind of weekend where you need a password in case someone gets in a fight and needs back-up. Where you use the password repeatedly until you actually do find a guy who needs his clock cleaned and by then “tickleshits” only elicits gruff machismo and stifled laughter and the douche bag in the red hat keeps on being a douche all night long.
The kind of weekend where you bring a sombrero with you to the bars. Where a friend wears it all afternoon to keep people from noticing that he’s on the verge of passing out.
The kind of weekend where you yell at each other in crowded restrooms, on crowded streets, in crowded sandwich shops, across crowded bars. Where you yell the MSU fight song to groups of confused strangers who think you’re just mangling their favorite college tune.
The kind of weekend where a friend delivers four hand-poured jars of jalapeno pickle juice specifically for the creation of pickleback shots. Where you then have so many pickleback shots that you can still taste dill in the back of your throat two days later, not to mention the harsh tang of whiskey and that one pickled egg.
The kind of weekend where you spend an afternoon at the terrace. Where you spend hours quaffing pitcher after pitcher of cheap beer and the conversation moves with unexpected rapidity between the attractiveness of a distant female to ten year goals to how sexy we look in sunglasses to the drinking game 21 while the nearby families, elderly couples, and young professionals can only look on with a mixture of revulsion and envy at just what the youth of america are getting up to these days.
The kind of weekend where you get the cab driver to take you through the taco bell drive-thru. Where the sassy taco slave is so incredulous about someone actually ordering the taco twelve-pack at 3 A.M. that you almost question your decision, but it’s actually the best decision anyone made all night.
The kind of weekend where you help finish five boots at the German bar while sitting in a booster seat. Where one friend regurgitates chewed popcorn into the mouth of another friend and it’s not gross at all, it’s beautiful and touching like the spaghetti scene in Lady and the Tramp.
The kind of weekend where your friend wakes you up one hungover morning by turning on a slow, dull English football match, but you watch and love it anyway. Where that same friend wakes you up the next hungover morning by returning from a successful one night stand and you couldn’t be more pleased to be awoken.
The kind of weekend where you find yourself imitating a five-year-old girl’s sweet dance moves at an outdoor rock concert. Where you use those same dance moves every goddamn chance you get and it never gets old.
The kind of weekend where there are so many little moments that you want to remember but almost certainly won’t that you find yourself standing in the dark in the kitchen wishing the moment wouldn’t pass. Where you don’t even mind a little bit that it smells like unbathed dong.