Well, as I stated in the previous entry: "Funny how nothing ever turns out the way I planned."

How very true. Except, this time I was actually "planning" (ie. expecting) a pretty lousy night, so when things turn out the exactly opposite, it's actually a good thing. Who'da thunk it?

The party got a somewhat late start compared to what I was planning on, with the first people being on site with alcohol in hand at roughly 2000 (Saturday). Over the next couple of hours, the numbers kept growing from the initial four (myself included) to 12-13 people. Having an image to maintain (my real-life nickname is 'Vodka'), I drank like there was no tomorrow. Vomit landed in my kitchen sink and a bottle of Sambuca (The Almight Vomit-Inducer) smashed into my bedroom floor. That's gonna smell good when I go to bed in a bit.

Sometime during the binge, the doors were left open and my cat escaped. This will be his second night out on his own. I have no idea where he is or if he's even alive. Starting to get a little worried. At least I don't have to worry about him urinating on the living room floor again.

A few of the mortal participants started leaving for home in a convoy of taxis and friends' cars (with sober drivers, of course) at around 0030-0100. It was then decided that the remaining drunker masters were to relocate to a friend's apartment in the nearby city. A driver was procured and we all squeezed into his 7-seater Chevrolet Caprice. After a quick pit-stop because one of the passengers needed some food and a Coke, we finally arrived. More binging ensued.

That's when she walked in. Some semi-distant relative of the guy who owned the apartment. I have no idea how it happened (must've had a minor black-out), but before I knew it, we were sitting in the couch with our arms around eachother. Two of the other guests (my ex and the guy she's into, as you've no doubt read about before) passed out next to us on the couch, the apartment owner retired to his bedroom, the driver and another guy went home (not together, mind you) and the guy who vomited in my sink ended up asleep on the kitchen floor. This all happened during the watching of 'Jackass' and 'The 11 Commandments' (which is basically the French version of Jackass). And when my new female friend and I were just about ready to sleep, my ex and the other guy on the coach started snoring. Really, really loud.

Long story cut short, the two of us ended up staying up the whole night. Or morning. The last guy to pass out did it shortly before 0600, and then we just sat and talked and cuddled by ourselves until around 1100, only interrupted when the apartment owner rushed from his bedroom to the bathroom, wearing only his boxers, in order to projectile vomit into the toilet. He would do this once for about ten minutes, go back to the bedroom, sleep for a couple of hours, then vomit in the toilet for ten minutes, then fall asleep in the bathroom for half an hour, vomit for another ten minutes and then return to his bedroom.

The other wimps slowly came back to life, and by 1400-1500, everybody were up and (somewhat) in good health. Then the lot drove off to drop my ex off at her place before going to Sweden (for reasons unknown). And the girl and I took a little stroll before parting ways, as we were going to different places - me to my best friend's place and her to be picked up by her roommate before leaving for a city about an hour away, where they live.

I have three things I wish to point out:

1. Mmm, soft lips.

2. She's coming back to visit next weekend.

3. Best. Birthdayparty. Ever.

Then again, I knew it was going to be a special night when I saw the full moon.

Alas, staying up all night after downing over a liter of Vodka does take its toll on a poor guy. I got home at around 1800, have been up for 35 hours now, and drunk for about nine of those. I bid thee good-night.

Life's smilin' at the D-Man once again.

(Yes, I am very drunk in this picture. And it's not my hat.)