The other day, around mid-afternoon, I awoke in a somewhat crumpled/contorted heap on my bathroom floor. At first I was dazed, mildly confused as to how I’d come to adapt my dusty set of bathroom scales to a makeshift pillow, but this was soon forgotten as this familiar sensation of impending ‘death’ washed over me in a smug thickness. After several attempts to rise I eventually managed a half crawl, half wriggle into my hall-way, where, upon seeing a half-bottle of Vodka, I promptly vomited.
‘It must have been a good night though’, is the standard justification my friends usually give after a heavy night of drinking, dancing and debauchery, though this is pure speculation as nobody can really remember half of what happened the night before the morning after.
I’ve somehow found myself in my second-year of University now, and so this ‘go out, get messy, then die in bed wallowing in self-pity and the stench of rum and shame’ routine isn’t exactly new, but I can honestly say I don’t remember it being quite as prominent before I became a student. Never before attending University did I ‘have’ to go out simply because it was a Tuesday, or Wednesday, or just because it was dark outside. I’m certainly not alone on this either, when I stayed in halls of residence during my first-year of study, to not go out every night of the week usually resulted in being barricaded in your room from the outside in at 4am by your drunken flatmates, who had decided that just outside your door was the perfect home for the ironing board, kettle, toaster, and all 5 dining chairs. If you can’t beat them, join them. Unfortunately, when I tried to explain this to my lecturers, when the subject of my missing assignments inconveniently cropped up, they seemed not to see my logic.
Missing lectures/deadlines isn’t my only hangover-related issue, my friends and I often find ourselves missing whole days after a ‘hefty session’. It seems that prolonged periods of sleep and absolutely no physical effort whatsoever is the only cure to this kind of ailment, with the occasional ‘Big Mac’ meal thrown in for particularly dire cases. God only knows how any of us are still enrolled on any kind of course that allows us to soak up any knowledge at all.
Unbelievably, during the infrequent blips of sobriety that equate to my actual, non-student life, I do actually have a part-time job. Though, even this is situated within a City-Centre bar. A few nights ago, I had the misfortune of working a particularly hectic club-night, whereby I was near-driven to render myself unconscious with my own bar blade. This undeniable rage was brought on by the entrance of what must have been almost every student in Liverpool cramming themselves against our bar and demanding (separately) 20 apple shots for £20 and actually no can 10 of them be cherry, oh no wait, they actually wanted a pint of cider and black and are now refusing to pay. Finally when you think you’ve got a slightly less inebriated chap to serve, it becomes apparent he only wants one bottle of beer for £1.60, and is paying by debit card. Its nights like these that make me vow to stop being an annoying drunken student pest when I go out, and yet, you’ve still got to admire our dedication. Eight hours later, having cleaned up more sick than I ever wanted to see in a lifetime and bin-bagged more glow-sticks than I thought existed, my shift ended and I retired back to my apartment. With two of my colleagues. And more than two bottles of foul-tasting over-proof rum for our troubles. It really is no wonder that my ‘secret santa’ at work bought me a giant wine glass.
I know we’ve all had embarrassing moments when we’ve had a few tequilas too many, but recently I’ve come to realise that the more concise term for ‘embarrassing moment’ is just ‘life’, at least for us more ‘enthusiastic’ students, with a sambuca on the side. It has forced me to remember that I didn’t always snooze on my friend’s kitchen floors after having devoured all their frozen potato products, or allow my paralytic male work-friend to claim my polka-dot night-wear, and my bed, while I slumber unaware on the aforementioned bathroom floor.
This weekend, I have pledged to remain sober and be an actual student, which must, deep-down, involve genuine studying and work. And, if I do end up out and about, (because we must be realistic, now) I shall remain sensible and composed at all times. Or at least forbid any photographic evidence of the contrary.