New Year's Eve 2011. Well, technically New Year's Day 2012 but it was like 3AM and I had claimed the small couch outside, the one that wasn't already hosting my friend who was half-heartedly vomiting into a cardboard box. I leant my head on the old wooden arm rest knowing full well that the next morning my neck would sound and feel like a cement mixer. Moonlight filtered through a Corona bottle that someone had put in my shoes and muffled conversation turned into white noise as I shut my eyes.
I woke up from strange dreaming about an hour later to the sound of clinking bottles on ice. A particularly loud friend of mine was searching clumsily and determinedly through the drink sink in the laundry where the remainder of my own stash was lying peacefully among half-drunk Cruisers and homebrand Coke. Generous as he is my friend gave a running commentary of his findings despite being completely alone, and lo and behold, he came across my beer, MY beer, which was likely the only drink unopened and unsoiled in the drink sink. Even though he initially scoffed at the brand, he then proceeded to open and drink my drinks that I had stolen from the stock we have at home, leftover from a family party.
I don't know why I love that story so much. I think the ridiculousness of it appeals - lying in a sleeping bag that doesn't zip up on a too-short itchy couch with shooting stars above my head and a cardboard box full of vomit beside it, listening to a 17 year old boy open and drink my drinks while providing a running commentary for his own benefit and subsequently mine too - and again, I guess there's that nostalgia of actually being involved in a typically teenage situation that just drives me crazy with strange joy.
Gettin' old.
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