|In my defense, I don't actually know this person, nor did I take this photo.|
We go out, we get a group together, and we drink some beer. And by some, I mean enough to fill a bathtub. Or two.
So, last night I had a short conversation with my roommate, and we decided to pick up some Coors Light, pre-game on the patio, and listen to Flo Rida's "GDFR," as loudly as possible.
Sidebar: The only other girl in the hole-in-the-wall liquor store I stopped to buy beer was from Lincoln, Nebraska, because, why wouldn't you be?
The roommates and I shared a few beers, a few laughs, and Uber-ed it down to the Hermosa Pier.
It was obvious I was not mentally prepared for what we walked into. We first stopped at Project Taco for food, and may have Snapchat (Snapchatted?) a story of a girl blatantly passed out on the restaurant's bench. Her very helpful boyfriend patted her back like you would a football player in man-hug as he devoured his taco. They swayed away to the dance of the green beer fairy.
The three of us got in line to Hennessey's Tavern. We, miraculously, scored an awesome table on the patio, complete with an awesome waitress. We were casually sipping drinks and munching appetizers when EO (roommate) let out a shriek. The girl directly next to us had grabbed an empty cup from her table and started vomiting into it. And then another, and then another. We did our best to ignore the debauchery next to us, but it proved challenging.
We all sat with faces of disgust and talked amongst ourselves about how they should leave. And then it hit me. Am I past drunken St. Patrick's Day parties? Have I grown too old to want to party like that on a Tuesday, thinking about what time I need to get up for work and wondering if I have Tums at home? I said it out loud and we all stared at each other in shocked agreement. We had been judging all the drunks with serious side shade and snorts.
When the bus boy came back to clean up cup number three with vile bile, he finally asked where it was coming from.
I could have causally suggested it might have been a girl with the party near us. I could have pretended like it wasn't my business and I wasn't sure. But instead, I sold that biotch out. I immediately pointed and said, "it was that girl. Long hair, grey sweater." I had no shame, as the vomit cups were not-so-delicately placed at my feet, leaving me with the uneasy assumption I would be feeling the warm wave of puke cross my toes and settle in my shoes.
The manager was asked to get involved, the giant scary security man with a braid down his back hustled them out, and finally we were again at peace. We left shortly thereafter and went home to relax on the patio.
It was a sad passing, and I poured one out for my homies, as we acknowledged our tastes had changed, and we no longer enjoyed being surrounded by hundreds of drunken. sweaty people at a bar with music too loud, you can't hear one another speak. I almost felt as if I had said the words, "cool, man" I would be looked at like an embarrassing dad trying to fit in with his teenage kids.
It was all very bizarre, but I imagine this experience doesn't fall on deaf ears. So, cheers to all you adults out there, celebrating comfortable, adult holidays.
Or maybe we should get some wine and discuss politics?
Thanks for soundin' down..