Sharing drunken war wounds with Darbiel, the Sunshine Angel, I was reminded of that one time that I scared a man out of my apartment.
It was during Melbourne Whore Week, a week spent with a fellow wordpress blogger who shall remain anonymous unless she chooses to reveal herself, where we were stoned, drunk and/or having sex, the entire time.
It was seriously, the most fun week of my life.
I wish I could say that it was the most debauched, but to be honest, the events of this week are quite tame in comparison to the everyday life I lived when I first lived alone in that beautiful, cold city.
Nevertheless, on this particular occasion, my cohort and I met two men outside a popular eating establishment. We struck up a conversation, and, because I was guilt-ridden and hated myself for drinking, and was terribly, completely lonely, the only way I could alleviate that guilt and loneliness was to coerce others into drinking with me – any time of the day, any day of the week, any person who showed an interest in being an accomplice to my next drunken adventure. And that is how two men we met outside Hungry Jacks ended up naked in my apartment.
Well, one of them ended up naked.
The other one, I chased out of there with a broken wine bottle.
At least, that’s how he saw it.
What really happened was that he and I were standing next to the concrete wall in my bedroom. My wine bottle was empty. I didn’t enjoy that, so I broke it on the wall. I didn’t anger-smash it, I just “naughty bottle!” tapped the base of it against the wall, where it cracked and broke in an awesome crazy-heartbeat shape.
The fact that I was so clearly enjoying the sight of this broken bottle in my hand apparently alarmed this gentleman, who began to back out of my bedroom, saying nothing to his friend.
I looked up and saw him leaving, asked where he was going, and slowly began to follow him. I’d forgotten all about the broken bottle I was holding in my right hand.
It didn’t take long for his walk to turn into a bit of a run, until I was standing on my balcony in a t-shirt and my undies, holding a broken wine bottle and asking a man in unbuttoned jeans why he was running away from me.
“Because you’re holding a broken wine bottle like a crazy lady!” he shouted, as he ran down the stairs.
And that’s when I remembered that I was holding a broken wine bottle like a crazy lady.
I walked back into my apartment, put the bottle in the bin, went back to the bedroom and informed the naked people in there that I had just accidentally scared the other one away with a broken wine bottle.
Thankfully, the other guy was so enamored with my friend, he didn’t care.
Later on that week, we jumped into an already-taken taxi, and
kidnapped convinced the passenger in there to not go home as the sun was coming up, but instead join us for our trip to the 24 hour bottle shop on Chapel St, and then to my apartment at Hawksburn station.
For half a day, he’d given us a fake name, because he was scared that we might possibly harm him.
Ha-ha. Those common misunderstandings!