How To Go To Brunch
Wake up moderately-to-completely drunk from the night before. Think to yourself, “I’m never drinking again, unless it’s right now.” You think this because you know drinking is the best hangover cure – though that isn’t necessarily true, is it? You’re not so much “curing your hangover” as you are “getting drunk again,” and god knows that once you’re wasted, you’re not one for multitasking. PEACE OUT, HANGOVER. See you tomorrow!
Roll out of bed and assemble the brunch squad. Wake up roommates/bedmates. Call people. “You’re still in bed? Well, haven’t you heard? We’re brunchin’ it up! Get your ass in gear or we’re making decisions without you. You have 20 minutes to get over here, we’re all dying of hunger. No admittance without beer, sowwy, byeeee.”
Once your key players are in place, argue about where you’re going to eat. You want the place with the drink specials, they’re tired of the chicken salad there, you tell them to be more creative with their order, they say, “Jesus, you’re obsessed with that place. Can’t we go somewhere else for once?” And you’re all, “Fine. YOU pick a place where we can get plastered for a flat rate of $25 and I’ll consider it,” just do that until everyone is too hungry and murderous to disagree with you.
Put on your brunch shirt. You know, your brunch shirt. It’s the shirt you somehow manage to wear every weekend, without fail; essentially it’s the easiest shirt to find/ coordinate with/ look cute in when you’re drunk. Often, it resembles something you’d sleep in and disguises stains well enough. Plaid button down? Kurt Cobain t-shirt that was once black but now rocks that proud “I’ve survived over 2,000 washes” gray? The too-small hoodie you had to cut half the sleeves off of, just to make it fit again? PUT IT ON. YOU’RE GOIN’ TO BRUNCH.
Have a beer while everyone meanders around in a hungover stupor. “Guys, I’m starving!” Someone/ everyone proclaims. “What did we do last night? There’s like, potato chips everywhere. And hot sauce.” “Where?” you say, I mean you’re not going to eat them or anything, you’re just curious. “Guys. Hold the phone. What did we eat last night? I vaguely recall eating something…” and no one remembers. You never remember.
Put on your sunglasses and walk to brunch. Link arms with one of your friends and tell her a secret. “I almost texted him last night…” She’ll look at you like you just told her you’re considering ass implants. Then she’ll slap you harder than intended. “Bad!” You keep full sentences to a minimum, at least until noon.
Arrive at your brunch destination, where everybody knows your name because you’ve announced your arrival every weekend for the past six months. “EVERYBODY IT’S ME, THE FOURSQUARE MAYOR! Y’ALL GOT A MAYOR SPECIAL YET?” Lucky for you, this restaurant hasn’t quite taken off yet so the staff is endeared by your loyalty. Sit down and order a round of mimosas/ Bloody Marys/ bellinis. “What’s a bellini?” a new member of the brunch squad asks, and you’re all “God. Where did you grow up? Guam?” and they’re all, “Yeah, actually. Never mind, I’ll take a Bloody Mary. Prick.”
Whenever the waiter approaches your table, order another round. Even if no one needs a new drink. Unlimited drinks brunch prefix, this ain’t a game. Speak now or forever hold your empty glass remembering what once was. After polishing off your meal and 904089084396 drinks, begin taking suggestions for what to do next. You all have a default bar in mind, just in case. “There’s some bands playing down the street,” one person offers. This suggestion gets a universal MEH until, “and it’s open bar” is tacked on to the end of it. “Shall we?” You shall.
Have a nightmare of a time trying to figure out who owes what. The plight of the financially stagnant 20-something. Resolve to make a rich, guilty friend in 2012. “Well, your meal is $3 more because you added prosciutto. Sorry to be the bearer of the bad news.” “Um, whatever, because you two shared a side of bacon so, hi! We’re even!” “Not really, because I paid .90 cents more on the cable bill this month, so get over yourself. Cheap ass.” Cell phones are drawn (to calculate the tip). The newbie brunch squader rescinds her membership. I mean, brunch isn’t for everyone.
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Will it feel the same when you tell me you love me over the phone? Will the peacefulness of those words still floor me from thousands of miles away?
I was conflicted. It felt like one eye was trying to look away while the other soaked it up. I felt the heat rise in my face. This was wrong. But it didn’t feel wrong.
Any nervous flyer knows the progression of descending panic: bile, sweaty palms, social awkwardness and self-induced sedation.
I know how it feels when the weight of darkness crashes down onto your chest in the middle of the night, and how you wish things would stop spinning because the axis seems tilted now. I know, love, I know.