If anything, yesterday felt like a day for drinking, so drinking was done.
What a baffling, frustrating work week. Everything seemed Sisyphean. I’d finish work and immediately have to change it because of delayed deliverables. Just top to bottom nonsense. I was more than over it by 11am yesterday and still had hours yet to go. You know that old cowboy adage of (and I’m paraphrasing here) ‘I’m falling out of my saddle and still have miles to go before I sleep’? That’s how I felt, but with alcohol. I needed an outlet, some drinks and dancing.
So I did what any delinquent would do and schemed a couple of Jack O’ Blast mixes. If I haven’t mentioned Jack O’ Blast before (I’m sure I have) it’s a seasonal Captain Morgan pumpkin spiced liqueur that tastes infinitely better than it has any right to. I don’t even like pumpkin as a sweet taste. To this day I’m unsure if I even like pumpkin pie, but for some reason Jack O’ Blast just works. There’s a clutch cinnamon hint on the back end that really ties the drink together. For some absurd reason it seems to go with most everything. I tried apple/lime juice, which worked like a charm and also gave me instant heartburn (because I’m over 30. That’s just life). Next up was gingerale and a splash of lime juice. Great, just great. I stacked up a bunch of drinks as I “pregamed” my intended dance party. Really, this just meant I got to stay home and be a menace on the internet. I referred to horse porn as “Hot Mane on Mane Action” and plastered inappropriate Bitmoji around Facebook. It was exactly what a Friday night needed to be.
Then I went out to dance. Goddamn what a carefree, vibrant energy that place had. Maybe I’d just sequenced my drinks right and found that perfect intoxication level, but I was having the time of my bloody life. I got there around 11.30pm and danced straight until I left just before 2am. Big bounce and some fancy footwork. I was more sweat than man, knowing full well just how overworked my body was gonna feel the following day. I had a bunch of friends on the dance floor and quickly made new ones. Some dude came over just to talk for a solid two minutes about how great my chest hair was. It was the nicest fucking compliment I could’ve gotten. When I stopped for water some guy came over to say how much he liked my dancing, and where did I get my “M” from? I told him I was unfortunately just drinking, but good luck. By the time I left I was dripping with sweat, totally exhausted and really bloody hungry. So I figured I’d give my body all the calories it’d lost.
Handily I was five minutes’ walk from my favourite Chinatown place, and of course it was still bustling at 2am. I ordered the usual: A bowl of wonton noodle soup with flat rice noodles and bbq pork on top. This place does unbelievable soup. I’ve heard that they employ someone just to tend the broth all day. It’s bursting with flavour and, with a dash of chilli and soy sauce, totally lifts the flavour profile of everything else in it. It was a decent, hearty meal with big ol’ squishy noodles. A total boon at 2am. Then after making my way up to Bloor and calling an Uber, I used the eight minute wait time to grab a slice of pizza just for extra packing. It was shitty pizza and it still perfectly fit the pizza shaped hole in my stomach.
There you have it. All the ingredients for an ideal Friday night.