Like most of you I have a tendancy to dislike things which almost take my life, hence the title. I recently got lost after an appalingly drunken night on the town. I remember roughly four percent of it. This, in and of itself is not good. When you end up staring down the barrel of the inevitable walk home after realising that it's five miles, no money for a taxi, and that it's minus seven degrees celcius, you begin to feel despair. Then you realise you're only wearing a t-shirt, and that it's snowing heavily again. It was at this point I felt the need to knock over roughly fifty wheelie bins to vent. I recovered(ish) when I realised I knew how to get home, and off I set. I didn't feel the cold at all. I had no hangover the next day at all. However, I don't think I've ever woken up feeling more disgusted with myself in my life. My memory had more holes in it than an American highschool, I felt so battered (presumably from falling over) that I could've been raped by the Hulk for all I knew, and I had bruises on the palm of my hand. I didn't even know people under 80 could get bruised hands. Fuck this shit.
You may find yourselves absolutely shcoked to discover it actually tought me a lesson. Not only did I stay sober for the entire next week, the next weekend I didn't venture further than tipsy. Four beers as a predrink, check.
No shots when out clubbing, check. Take home gay girl, check. That last bit might look not so sensible to the unimformed...oh well. Between these events was plenty of dancing, good times, encouraging violence and laughs. I didn't do a single thing I don't remember, nor anything that disgusted me. Lesson learned in the long run I'd say. Go me. Moral of the story, don't fuck a wounded bear.
And for the curious, she may get her own entry in the somewhat forseeable future. You guys know how unreliable I am.