What's with the Drunken Boys?

Second weekend in a row that men have apologized for their drunken behavior. What is it with me this month?

I had really been looking forward to the Halloween party held by Lewis (the Kiwi), Ronnie (the Canadian), and Joe (the American), because the last time there was a party at their house, I had a fantastic time. It was the beginning of the summer, everyone from our class came out to have a good time, and I ended up sleeping over, next to a smelly French guy and aforementioned Lewis, wondering and smiling at the strangeness of it all. At that point in the year, I was really down in the dumps because of my breakup with John, and the party was one of several that started erasing the blue haze over everything. So, I had great expectations of this party.

I should have known better.

Most of our old friends didn't show up, and a good number of people -- even though they knew some Korean -- were speaking English, putting those who didn't know English in an awkward situation. I had brought my friend Maiko with me, and she said she felt a bit odd, trying to follow Americans, Canadians, Irishmen, New Zealanders and even some Koreans who were talking mostly in English.

I guess I wasn't in the mood to socialize with new people or something (a more and more common occurrence), so I stuck close to Maiko, who knew pretty much the same people I did (around 4 in number). The night wore on, though, and we did have a nice conversation with my speaking teacher, who was cool enough to come to the party.

I had arranged with Lewis the day before to sleep over, since I figured the subway would be closed before I felt like leaving, and he said, "Of course! If you don't mind sleeping with another friend, though -- Antoine [the French guy] will also be staying over." No problem, I said.

However. By the time the party stuttered toward its end, there were more than a few people who decided, at the last minute, to sleep over rather than go home. Maiko also decided to stay with me, but before we could grab a spot, three people fell asleep in Lewis' room, three in Ronnie's room, and an unknown number in Joe's. This left the space outside their rooms for the rest of us. It was a goodly number of square feet, actually, but it was unheated and unblanketed, and generally uncomfortable to sleep on.

I felt okay, fairly unsleepy, but Maiko was nodding off, so I suggested that she might be able to squeeze into Lewis' room. Unfortunately, when I opened the door, someone was VERY close to someone else, and I thought, "Oy. Is that what I think it is? Maybe not. Maybe so? Doesn't matter. Get out." I'm not quite sure what was going on there, just that there was just no way that Maiko would want to sleep next to it.

So we stayed out in the drafty hall space until morning, drowsing on and off, chatting periodically with the six others who were stranded there -- no, wait, three of them were asleep, actually. One of the others, Eamon, stalwartly fulfilling Irish stereotype, kept drinking through the night. Maiko and I started thinking about leaving around 7 am, and Eamon said, "Wait, let me finish this bottle and I'll go with you."

We sat down resignedly to wait, near our bags on the stairs, but this wasn't good enough. first he insisted we have a conversation (me and Maiko). So I started telling a story: "A long time ago, when tigers still smoked cigarettes, there lived an obnoxiously drunk Irishman." That got some laughs from the people still awake. After finishing the story (the Irishman gets eaten up by the tiger, natch), I asked Eamon if he were ready to go.

Nein, meinen freunden. At this point he kept asking us to come and sit down next to him, but when we did, he got up and opened another bottle of beer! Which he then proceeded to knock over! Partly on me!

At that point, we left.

I got home around 8:30 am, and slept til 6 pm. Around 7 pm, Lewis called and apologized for the lack of sleeping space.

The next day, Eamon messaged my phone and apologized as follows: "Solaris-like memories surfacing... apologies for drunken behavior."

"Ah fuggedaboudit," I messaged.

"Eh?"

"Brooklyn accent: forget about it."

"No hail marys or anything?"

"I don't believe in that stuff. Fuggedaboudit."

"How about extreme unction?"

At school today, I told him, "No extreme unction either." I also refused to tell him what exactly he'd said and done while drunk off his rocker and slurring his words on Saturday morning, even though he earnestly asked what he'd done. Because (surprise, surprise) he'd totally forgotten. Lewis, who had witnessed the whole "please sit down and I'll tip some beer on you" scene, also had no memory of it.

Well, if ye don't rememberrr, ye don't get to have a nice summary of what ye did, do ye? Next time, dooon't drink so much.

Must admit, though, it's funny to see someone be so anxious about something they did in a drunken stupor. Heh heh.