I’ve done a lot of really weird shit in cabs. Many of these stories I don’t care to air on the Internet. Looking back on some of these stories, I am quite confused and also perturbed. What about the backseat of a cab is arousing? The smell of BO from the driver or possibly stale cigarettes? I guess the smell of an unwashed foreign armpit is way better than shame and regret. (A smell I am oh so familiar with.)
However, as I do not have much dignity left, I figure I might as well share a few tales while they’re still considered “entertainment.”
Years ago I had gone out drinking with friends. As I recall, I had been doing some day drinking and was headed home. I don’t remember the events I’m about to describe, but I cannot deny they occurred. I say and do some pretty stupid shit when I’m drunk. Hell, I say and do pretty stupid shit when I’m sober. Alcohol at least gives me an excuse for doing and saying the stupid things.
In my drunken state I had made some calls to various friends to “check in” (aka, leave three-minute voicemails that were garbled, cryptic and likely full of me giggling about nothing.) Back in my fully enforced drunk dialing stage, my only saving grace was not making any sense at all.
Why do I talk like I have a mouth full of marbles most of the time? I know most people, when listening to their own voice, always thinks it sounds weird. My voice sounds like I really need to spit. What the fuck is that? Someone once told me I should do voiceovers because I talk with such enthusiasm.
Enthusiasm and overactive salivary glands are apparently interchangeable.
And just for the record, I don’t like spitting or people that spit. That’s gross.
So anyway, my one friend was stupid enough to call me back. “Leigh, where are you?” she demanded.
“I’m driving down Lake Shore Drive with some dude!” I happily informed her.
“What? Who is this guy? Where did you meet him?” she inquired with urgency.
“I don’t know,” I slurred. “Outside of the bar, I think. It’s fine. Lake Shore Drive woooooooooo,” I exclaimed drunkenly.
“Put this guy on the phone immediately!” she demanded.
As requested, I handed the phone over to the Mystery Man, yelling, “My friend needs to talk to yoooouuuuuu.”
“Hello?” Mystery Man said in a heavily laden Indian accent.
“Oh, hello there. This is Leigh’s friend. Where are you taking her?” my friend said, confused.
“I’m taking your friend home, Miss. She is in my cab,” he responded.
Moral of the Story:
My friend has now learned NOT to answer any of my calls, basically ever. She just never knows when I might be off the wagon. Dealing with my drunken self is apparently like dealing with an unruly 5 year old who has a mouth full of marbles, a testosterone problem, and has just indulged in some Spanish Fly and oysters.
She also now knows to NOT call me back, either. I will likely tell her I’ve been hijacked by some random dude who picked me up outside of the bar. And by that, I mean the taxi driver who I flagged down to take me home.
But hey, at least there was no sharing of bodily fluids.
This is considered growth, right?