iHate Patrón…

Let me tell y’all this about my ridiculous Saturday night. I have to tell it to you the way I remember it – in flashes. Here are the lessons I learned from this adventure because you, apparently, can never learn enough lessons. So, with that, here are the things I learned over the weekend:


1. F*ck you, Patrick Ronald! – I may be one of the few people on Earth that does not understand the hype surrounding Patrón, aka Patrick Ronald.



I don’t like it.



It doesn’t matter if it is freezing cold, it makes me feel like I am drinking liquid fire. Every time, EVERY SINGLE TIME, I drink it I get it about half way down and then have to convince myself to, “man up, stop gagging, don’t choke,” along with preparing my stomach for the fire bomb that’s on it’s way down.






I believe this, in part, was responsible for my yaking up that turkey sandwich I’d eaten, exactly 7 hours after consumption.



AND I KNOW BETTER! I know I don’t like Patrón! I know I don’t, but I still drank it because I trust my bartender.



I’ve also been further convinced that I need to really, REALLY, focus on chewing my food better. SMH…




2. Once clean, stay clean! – So like 3 weeks ago I fell completely off of the vegetarian/clean eating wagon. That means, prior to my falling, there was no meat in my diet, except eggs ( I love eggs), I drank water 95% of the time, and I hadn’t had an alcoholic beverage since, oh IDK, July or August-ish, maybe even before that.


As a result of this wagon falling I have incurred sugar induced acne, my stomach feels like it could possibly fall out of my body at any second, and my alcohol tolorance level is that of an overprotected college freshman at their first party – practically nonexistent!



The last 3 weeks have been terrible and, on Sunday morning, it all came to a head.



I ate a hot turkey sandwich that was practically Thanksgiving on a roll. I cannot lie, as drunk as I was, it was the best thing I’d eaten. EVER! #HandtoGawd, it was freakin delicious.



It also turned out to be second worse decision I made that evening morning.



I’m going to say this, from awful, hard learned experince, if you are a clean/vegetarian eater, do not, I REPEAT, DO NOT revert back to the land of grease, sugar, and perservatives. YOU WILL DIE!!!



ok…maybe you won’t die, but it will certainly feel like you are on your way to dying.




3. Make sure your bartender is a complete stranger! – I know my bartender. That’s my homie. We go back. She is who I will be referring to as “The Bartender” because I do not have express written permission to use her gov’ment name on this public forum. <– #DoNotSueMe


History has proven that every time I know my bartender, and that includes when I play bartender, bad things happen. I don’t mean bad things like how Huck means bad things; I just mean bad things, like, oh, I can’t feel my face type bad things.

Apparently, The Bartender, gave me and Alisa rum and cokes with double shots. All. Damn. Night.




She knew, KNEW, I hadn’t drank in like 4 or 5 months. She new my liver wasn’t up to the job. And even if it was up to the job, I can’t drink like she can drink.

Maaannnnn. The Bartender will put servicemen to shame, and then get up the next morning and run 3 miles like nothing even happened.

I’m not bout that life.

You’re telling me that I drank something like 10 shots!?!


TEN!!!??! Ten.



C’mon man! Oh, and then she has us cap it all off with a shot of Patrick!


Smh…she hurt my whole life with that.



When I tell you I could not feel the front for my body; it was like it was gone. It felt like I was just skull, booty cheeks and feet!






4. No I’m not, “like that,” but even if I was so the f*ck what!!! – The disrespect in these streets is so extra real.


All night in the bar, Alisa and I couldn’t find a seat. Between the birthday party and the large number of, I guess, regulars it was packed. About a half an hour before the spot was about to close, we found a seat!! #SUCCESS!!!

Alisa was dancing. I sat down.

I’m not much of a dancer, mostly because I can’t dance…or at least I can’t dance in a publicly acceptable way that wouldn’t lead people to think I was having a seizure. I also cannot let go of my inhibitions. I just can’t accept being out of control…even when I’m drunk. I’m a barrel of Type-A brand fun! <– I know, I know, it’s my unfortunate cross to bear.

Anywho, Alisa came back to the bar to talk to The Bartender. A little background: I’m much taller than Alisa. I cannot sit properly facing the bar because my legs are so long. Alisa and I have been friends for like 12-13 years.

With that, Alisa was leaning over my left leg to talk to The Bartender. That forced her to be standing in between my legs, not in a provocative way, just simply leaning over me having a conversation. No big deal.



Until it was…



Occasionally, I noticed that the old guy sitting next to us, in an ugly ass hoodie, gold Slick Rick sunglasses, and, I think, a Coogi skully (#Pause! Did you get beat up by the 80s before you left the house!?) was looking at us all cross-eyed.




As soon as I’d make eye contact, he’d look away. This little awkward transaction went on for a couple minutes, until he got the nerve to signal me and ask a question. I leaned forward, over Alisa’s back, and he asked, “You’re like that?”


At first, I didn’t understand what he was asking me because the music was so loud, not to mention I was thoroughly annoyed because a stranger of the male geriatric persuasion wanted to talk to me. ::sigh:: here we go. My, terse, confused response was, ” What?!”


He boldly repeated his question. This time the question was tart, like his breath, and laced with impatience and disgust and he asked, “You’re like that!?”

I, very much so in the throws of drunk brain, still wasn’t getting what he was trying to infer about me. So I asked, equally with impatience and disgust, “Like what!? What are you talking about?”


His response wasn’t immediately verbal. He glaced and nodded his head at Alisa, who I know had no idea this exchange was taking place, and then looked back at me with a questioning yet accusatory sneer and said, “You know, like that.”




It clicked.




And he knew it clicked because his facial expression changed to a please smirk, just as mine changed to a pissed off scowl.


Just because my girl, is pretty much my sister, was leaning on my leg and holding a conversation with someone, and I’m seemingly not bothered, that makes me gay? On what level does that even make sense? That makes me crazy!!! Ass-backwards logic – My #1 pet peeve!!!!!



My response to him, with full on screw face, “Why the F*CK does it matter!? Stop F*CKIN talking to me and mind your F*CKIN business!”



Like…why did he feel it was ok to come at me like that?!


You mad because you got that hot ass hoodie on in a party!?

You mad because all my drinks were free and you’ve been nuring that warm ass Bud all night!?

You mad because you don’t have a girl leaning over your leg while talking to The Bartender, who, by all accounts, looks like a walking advertisiment for IHOP!?#SheStacked! <– Hey, Boo, heeeyyyyyyyy *waves*



You mad?! You mad, bro!? WHY YOU MAD!!!??!



Listen, don’t worry about what I do, when I do it, and/or whomever I so choose to do it with. #StayInYourLane!!! I’m not all up in your business with that Gremlin you rolled up in the spot with!



See…that’s that shit I don’t like!









As you can imagine, I was turned all the way off, but luckily last call was announced and the lights were turned on. True to form, like any insect confronted by light, dude got his coat and his lady friend and they rolled.


I swear, in all my life, I’ve never had to deal with such ignorance.



I shoulda slapped him. <– Another reason why I shouldn’t drink. #JesusTookTheWheel!!!




5. Just wait. You live around the corner. – This is what I should have told myself. I should have said, “Self, just wait. You will be home in 2.5 seconds, and you can pee then.”


But I didn’t do that.






::sigh:: Drunk brain is ridiculous! Stuff that you know you would never do, things that you know your home training taught you better than, you wind up doing just because!


So Alisa, The Bartender and I are all standing in front of the sandwich counter in Wawa and I, abruptly annouce, in between eating a donut and in front of the girl making our sandwiches, that I have to pee. Bad.


Like really bad.


Alisa asked the girl behind the sandwich counter if there was a bathroom I could use, to which she responed, “Nooo, I’m sorry.” <– I was too preoccupied with that damn donut to ask about the bathroom myself. Not to mention we were literally right around the corner from my house.


I want to emphasise that my house is Right. Around. The. Corner. from Wawa.


I was standing there, hopping from one foot to the other, eating that damned donut, hoping, wishing and praying that the sandwich girl would hurry the hell up so I could go to the bathroom.


Then The Bartender suggested that I go outside to go to the bathroom. So I gave my donut to her, grabbed a fist full of napkins, and headed to the side of the building.



::sigh:: AT THE TIME, at the time, as I was making my way into the bushes, I thought that was the best idea of the freakin night!!! I really was like, “Damn, why didn’t I think of that!?”


You know, when you’re drunk, it never ever dawns on you that what you are doing may not necessary be the best option, or even a reasonable one. Peeing in the dark, alone, at 3 something in the morning.






Glad I wasn’t taken!


I will tell you this, my traveling to India and Malaysia, booooyyyyyyyyy, I can pee just about anywhere. <– #MBALife!!!


I almost fell backwards, twice, but, eventually, I got it together, handled my business, and walked back inside; not before I got a crap load of hand sanitizer…I know, I KNOW!! Hand sanitizer.


Finally the girl finished making out food and we left.




All of those things led to me finally sitting on my bed eating a hot turkey sandwich, with no pants on, the shirt I went out in, Uggs on, watching Grimm on my iPad, and not quite sure as to where my phone was, but not convinced that it was actually lost. <– I’m not sure how or why my Uggs were still on, but my pants were gone. How does that even happen?

Anyway, midway through the sandwich I had to run, read: stumble, to the bathroom in false puke alarm. I stood over the toilet for about 5 mins, you know, just in case.

I made it back to my room. Finished my sammie, turned the lights out and laid down.


It’s been quite a long time that I’ve been grateful that my bedroom is in the basement. Saturday night was one of those Glory-be-to-Gawd moments for my situation. It was freezing cold down there, and I loved it!!!




You know because there is nothing like a meat locker cold room when the room is 0n complete tilt and is spinning.In addition to that, my body felt like it was vibrating or humming. It was so weird! That had never happened before. And every time I inhaled I got motion sick! I was seriously contemplating taking a dramamine to make it stop! 


Next thing I knew it was 10:30 Sunday morning and I woke up with a deep scared inhale, like you see on T.V., because I realized my phone was missing. My body was still vibrating, my stomach felt like it was gonna fall out my body, and I had not a single clue as to where my phone could be.


First thing I did was search my pants, jacket, under the bed and the side of my bed that is storage. <– Do not judge me. All of my friends use the side of the bed they don’t sleep on as storage.


No dice!!


I then text Alisa, using my iPad, to ask her to check her backseat. Meanwhile my stomach feels like a whirlpool, just churning away, and my body feels like I had a subwoofer strapped to it.

She checked, and it wasn’t there.


Panic. Pure, unbridled, panic washed over me.


F*ck! F*ck!! F*****CK!!!! Where is my phone!? <– I feel like this phrase is always apart of my life. Lost my passport. Now my phone.





I asked my mom to drive me to Wawa, so I can ask if I left my phone on the counter the night before.


Nope! Not there.




I asked my mom to take me to The Bartender’s house to pick up my car. Once I got in my car, I frantically checked to see if my phone was in there, even though I know I had it while I was at the bar; long after we’d left my car. I drove home, like a bat out of hell, because 7-8 hours had already passed since the last time my phone was with me. I was also worried because I don’t lock my phone. After that crazy night with #1 RI BFF, I decided to never locked it again. So, needless to say I WAS FREAKING OUT!


I finally get home and research my room, but not before I stand over the toilet for another puke false alarm. I’m at the point where I know if I threw up, I’d feel soooo much better, but it’s not happening.

Alisa, being the genius she is, text me and told me to download the “Find My iPhone” app.


I download the app. Put in all the required information and remotely lock my phone, but I couldn’t figure out where my phone was. I knew it was in my neighborhood, but the app wouldn’t give me an exact address. So I asked my sister to call #1 RI BFF to use the built in stalker app, Find my Friends. I knew that that app would give me an exact address of where my phone was. #1 RI BFF’s ass was sleep! Can you believe that!? The nerve of her to want to sleep in during my crisis and time of need! I CAN’T FIND MY PHONE, B! <– I didn’t know the app emailed the location of my phone to iTunes account email. Oops.


I finally figured out the most likely place my phone could be.


I hopped in my car, and sped around the corner to Wawa. I haphazardly drove through the parking lot, almost taking out several church goers (My bad. Jesus loves me too!).  I parked on the side of the building close to the bushes, and jumped out.


Practically bent in half, I looked for my phone in the leaves, trash, and “other” materials that were on the ground.


Finally I found it. Not a single person had touched or found it since I used those bushes as a latrine. Relieved, I went inside Wawa and bought 3 ginger ales to help my poor, poor stomach. I got back home, put on some pajamas, and got in my bed, in my freezing room, when I jumped up and scrambled across my bed and ran up the steps.


I made it just in time to throw that turkey sandwich and Patrón up.



::sigh:: I felt much better.




Smh…I need help. On the plus side, lesson #6 is, always, ALWAYS, ALLLLWAAAYYYSS, register your Apple products. You never know when you’ll have to find them.



SMH…I’m a mess.




Speak your mind…


About themeanblackgirl

My name says it all!
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2 Responses to iHate Patrón…

  1. JC says:

    Girl! I didn’t know WAWA had a club, a bartender AND a sandwhich shop! You doing big thangs up there!

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