I will always remember my twenties as the years as a magical time of adventure, binge drinking and writing articles for RSD Nation.
These experiences have been punctuated by many pillow fights, interspersed with moments and glory and moments of shame.
There has been more than one occasion where I have woken up to feel the hot sun beat down on my face, before rubbing my eyes and posing myself the rather philosophical question: “where the fuck am I?”
If I managed to get myself into a situation where I didn’t know where I was upon waking up, then it usually followed that I was in a headspace where the grammar of my recovery monologues was compromised.
I once awoke to find ants in my hair because I used honey for styling gel. I was in a garden; luckily there was a girl next to me, so I knew that it wasn’t a completely wasted night.
Unsure as to whether or not the interaction was ‘high-five’ worthy, I strained to remember the night before, specifically wondering if there were any events that super ceded the attention I paid towards my own entertainment.
On the walk back from Brisbane’s botanical gardens I stopped to get an iced coffee, whilst my female pillow fighting friend dropped into the chemist to get a ‘morning after pill’. Either she remembered what happened when I didn’t, or she was just unsure and was being cautious.
Either way, great success!
As I strolled through the city that sultry Wednesday morning, I thought to myself... this is the walk of shame. Fat businessmen stared and spat at me. Others gazed longingly at the disheveled women at my side as she ingested her contraceptive. Children on the way to school, dressed neatly with their little ties, were frightened by me.
I was the ‘bad man.’
That long and hot walk back to my home was the definition of the walk of shame. Iced coffee wasn’t the most well thought out plan either. It was so damn hot, so yeah, milk was a bad choice.
Now, I’m no stranger to the walk of shame. In fact, there are several rivers named after me in Australia that honor the walks I took when I couldn’t afford a ride home.
However, one thing I’m much less of a stranger to is the stride of pride. When it comes to times of glory, I just cruise through Airport customs. The customs squid and I are on a first name basis these days.
I used to live with three guys, and we would have up to twenty five people sleeping (read as: unconscious) on the floor of our house. Some mornings I would wake and, as usual, wonder ‘where the fuck am I?” I would then breathe a sigh of relief as I saw my good old fashioned glow in the dark stars that I had stuck to my roof.
Unaware as to why I had no feeling in my right arm, I glanced to my adjacent area only to notice the gorgeous girl that was chilling sleep styles next to me. Delighted by this discovery and assured that there would be teams of guys passed out downstairs, I suggested that the girl roll off my arm and come to the letter box with me to collect my mail.
Striding like Jesus walking on water, girl in tow, others stirred and came to consciousness, themselves asking the quintessential question, “where the fuck am I?” Then they noticed me in the midst of my stride of pride, girl in toe. She asked, “why are we going to get the mail?”
It was Sunday; there was no mail.
Many months later and the stride of pride would be upgraded to waking up in world class hotel rooms. Escorting babes past teams of students always stopped doubts of the integrity of the RSD instructor abilities.
These are the glory times that punctuate what have so far been my twenties.