My last night out in Brantford…

I’ve thrown up three times already. I don’t fully understand what’s even happening. I see two figures in front of me stumbling around- my roommates are as drunk as I am. Seven shots of tequila down, I can tell this much by the large number 7 written on my forearm. I taste the food that I ate earlier in the day in my mouth. It definitely doesn’t taste as good the second time around.


I’m hitting the pavement hard suddenly. Why am I running? Flashing lights fly past, my stomach gurgles, and all I can think about is getting to the new bar before I puke again.

“Hold the vodka, so I can text this boy that I think I like,” she says. Apparently I’ve stopped running and now I’m holding a water bottle full of vodka.

When you’re drunk everything seems more romantic. My drunk mind sees the romance in skulking around Victoria Park past midnight. I see how cute it is for couples to order Lonnie’s food for one another. Laurier Brantford is full of drunk romantic moments if you seek them out.


My own burp interrupts my ridiculous thoughts. Back and forth, back and forth, I pass the water bottle filled with lemonade and vodka between myself and my roommates.

“Fuck, that’s strong,” she says.

“Mmmmmm,” my brain says. I don’t feel a thing.

Suddenly, I’m standing in a dark alley listening to a girl know I go on about how badly she wants to bang one of our professors. She’s busy sexualizing him while I’m busy thinking about my 10 page essay due on Wednesday. I will not miss essays. I hear some police sirens go by and I take another swig. This is a regular Saturday night in Brantford.


I hear a random girl start yelling about racism on the street. The funny and ridiculous people you meet on the streets of Brantford. I’m too drunk for this shit – I take off sprinting again in the direction of Insomnia. I swear I think I’m an olympic athlete when I’m drinking.


Of course, when I see nasty old newspapers cloud the windows of the bar I realize it’s not open. Things are never open when you want them to be.


Suddenly my smarter roommate grabs me by my sleeve…

“Kiley, what the hell are you doing?”

My tonsils are burning. I become aware of the empty water bottle in my hand. I couldn’t have just chugged that, could I have?

“This vodka is strong. It hurts my tonsils a little bit.”

I start laughing hysterically. So hard I think I’m going to pee. No one hears me. I’m rushed off to another place.

“Keep going drunkie.” Now they’re the ones laughing.

One drunk foot in front of the other. While there are limited places to party in Brantford, my drunken brain remains positive that we’ll find a fun place.

“She wants to fuck hard, but she doesn’t want to fuck a guy she doesn’t know.” I suddenly tune back into the conversation. What are my friends even talking about? Boys they want to sleep with? Suddenly I realize I was part of the conversation all along- I was the one talking.


Where am I exactly? Dalhousie and King, I think. I look at the old Brantford Expositor building- shit how times have changed since first year. Now is not the time to feel nostalgic though, save it for later. Now is the time to find an alternative bar.

In an alley way, again. There’s a police car around the corner.


I hear myself say, “Why don’t alley ways have lights on the wall? That would be safer.” I think of how much money I will make by inventing some lights specific for dark alley ways.

“What happened to you?” she says.

I look down and my foot is bleeding. Why is every inch of Brantford covered in glass?

That’s the last thing I remember on Dalhousie street.


My roommate is screaming on the phone to her boyfriend, another roommate is texting a boy she may or may not like. Girls become obsessed with boys when they’re drunk. I feel my stomach heave suddenly and I see an explosion of old chicken noodle soup splatter onto the pavement. I hardly believe it came from my own mouth.

“Hey, Insomnia isn’t opening tonight. Where are we headed?”

I mumble something else unintelligible.

We head to some supposedly cool kid’s house. It’s crowded, it’s sweaty, it’s honestly all a blur. I don’t remember how I convinced people that I was allowed to enter the building.


I’m back at home. The last hour has passed and I haven’t a single idea of any of it. I smell the salt that is embedded into my clothes from doing too many tequila shots, I see the chunks of vomit (my own and a few others) ground into my shoes. I sense the hangover I’ll have in approximately 5 hours.


Miraculously, and confusingly, I see that the phone in my hand is in a phone call. Actually, it’s 15 minutes into a phone call. The name of the person that is talking to me is “Music Soulmate”, a half-assed name that I programmed to a boy’s number a few months before. Apparently we are in a conversation.

“Do you agree?” he says.

I stall…badly.

“Do I agree that what?” I say, gulping back burps of lemon and tequila.

“Do you agree that we’d be perfect for each other?”

My brain feels like it’s been squeezed, the chunks of puke on my shoes stand out like spotlights. This Music Soulmate remains oblivious to all this.

“Sure I agree,” I say. Of course I agree. Everyone agrees with a cute boy. “Sure we’d be perfect for each other.” I stifle a yawn.

“Good. I’ll phone you tomorrow,” he says before hanging up.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Goodnight Brantford. At 6 in the morning, surely it is time for bed. I look around my house and see one of my roommate’s faces sitting directly into a bowl of vomit.

“God I’ll miss Brantford,” I think before pushing my roommate’s face out of the bowl.

I wouldn’t trade these last four years for the world.

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