This past weekend I went to Philadelphia to see my best friends. The typical shit show was on tap. We flipped the switch, drank in grotesque excess, and got f*cking wrecked. It's the only acceptable behavior for these kinds of outings. On this particular trip, however, I did something that I will never forget, nor sadly, will I ever completely remember. And that's a f*cking shame because it marked the first time that I actually never made it back from a drunken sleepwalk.
Now when it comes to intoxicated sleepwalking, I've had my fair share of close calls: I've locked myself out of hotel rooms, pissed in my own closet (among numerous other places), and one time, the night of my senior prom, I actually urinated on my best friend's girlfriend. I completely soiled that hooker, everyone was thrilled. In all the years, however, never once did I wake up the next morning, where I certainly did not belong. Until now.
At the time this particular event took place (about 4 a.m. Sunday morning), I was as blacked out as blacked out could be. Usually if I get this way from a night of drinking only hard liquor, I sleep like a f*cking log and shit violently the next day. No harm done. But when I stick to beer all night and then mix in a bunch of shots (as I did on this occasion), I sometimes blackout and eventually fall asleep with a full bladder. Meaning that while my mind may be in its own personal abyss, my bladder is scrambling like a young Kenny Stabler. So despite already calling it a night on my friend's couch, my body clearly had other plans. Plans that included taking a very unconscious walk somewhere. In my life, as I've come to accept, that's always accompanied by an impressively long piss all over an object that wasn't built for catching or absorbing urine, like a toilet bowl or a adult entertainment star's a**hole.
Although I can't remember any detail of what I did, I definitely know I walked somewhere and I pissed on something because when I finally woke up -- to the rage of a large African-American man who was a mere c*nt hair from ending my life- screaming something along the lines of, "Who the f*ck are you? You need to get the f*ck off my couch and out of my apartment, right now!" -- it was kind of a dead giveaway that I had struck again. Well, that and the severe lack of urine in my bladder.
I jumped off this guy's couch instantly. I had no shoes on, but I was willing to sacrifice those, because he had that "I'm gonna kill you and then call it self-defense" look in his eye. I managed to speak only a few words in my flustered state, but something like, "Whoa there, take it easy, honest mistake, I'm leaving this instant" came out of my mouth. As I stumbled out of his apartment, I quickly realized that my travels had only taken me three doors down the hall from my friend's apartment. I had gotten up in the middle of the night, walked out of my friend's apartment, invaded another man's home, and then soiled something he probably cherished. Exhausted from that, I passed out on his couch only for him to find me, still drunk, and shoeless, at 8 a.m. So yeah, my friend and his neighbor should have interesting exchanges when they see each other in the hallway from here on out.
Looking back on it, I am genuinely thankful that I didn't strut off a balcony or anything like that, but at the same time I am finding it hard to be remorseful that I did this. After all, it's an amazing story and it really ended well -- my shoes were at my friend's apartment the entire time. As for the large man who probably found a puddle of my piss in his apartment, he needs to learn to lock his f*cking door. I think I taught him that valuable lesson, and someday he'll come to appreciate it.