It’s sweaty and full of bodily fluids. It’s dark, humid and has the scent of something that died a few days ago. It’s full of all kinds of hair and other unmentionables… it’s the Pit on a Wednesday night.
Like all pioneer partygoers who decide to make the most of humpday on campus, I too have found myself here after days of saying “Fuck no, I’m not going!” Can you blame me though, it’s been in the negative degrees recently — both in the weather app and in my brain.
At this point, it’s exactly 11:46 p.m. After waiting in line outside, literally unsticking myself off of people and elbowing overly friendly men, the pre-game couldn’t stand a chance?
I’m now bathed in Vancouver’s heat-dome style sweat (I’m not even entirely sure it’s all my own) and friendless. Because the dumbass bitch I call a friend — the one who finally got a “FINE, I’ll come” out of me — has miraculously disappeared.
Honestly, this isn’t even the worst thing she’s done, in fact, it’s entirely predictable. I am thoroughly unimpressed. If she wants to make out with a greasy mofo wearing a backwards hat, who’ll ask for her Snapchat at the ripe age of 20-something… good for her!
Bad for me, though, because now I’m trapped in the seventh circle of hell (Dante reference) and guess what, it’s not exciting any poetic emotions in me. Instead, all I can think of is getting the fuck out of here and in for a cold shower before hitting a joint and calling it a night.
But I can’t leave just yet, because girls support girls, and I pride myself in being a solid friend. So until I find where she is, I’m not leaving.
There’s no point looking for her on the stage — with the DJ blaring 2010s pop right into our eardrums, I have close to no chances of screaming her name. And there’s no way I wouldn’t have spotted her already from where I’m standing — she’s also dressed in Aritzia like 99 per cent of girls up there.
Next spot: the bar. If I know one thing about my friend, it’s that she’ll never say no to a free drink. I use “free” loosely here, because is a drink really free if there’s an expectation of sex assigned to it?
But after I push past at least 45 somewhat acquaintances who I would’ve been happy to never see again, I still can’t see her. Strange, are the insanely watered down “cocktails” and cheap highballs not calling to her tonight? Have the sticky countertops lost their charm for her?
This leaves me with one option — the bathroom. I’ve been dreading checking this spot out, I’ll admit. The Pit’s bathroom is so dubious, anything that enters there once never comes out the same. I once heard that someone found a $50 bill on the toilet floor, and I’m not dumb enough to believe Vancouver has only one type of snow.
I peek inside and shout her name out loud as best I can. But I get no response, and I accept the slow terror that I actually can’t find her.
If you made it this far into my POV, you’re probably thinking I’m an idiot who hasn’t tried calling/texting/FaceTiming my friend. If this actually was your thought process, maybe you haven’t partied enough. Because if you’re ever having a good (read: “decent”) time, your phone has taken the backseat and the only soul bond that matters anymore is between you and the music.
I feel like a crappy friend, to be honest. I can’t find her, but I also want to make sure she gets home safe — god, I love being a woman!
I drop a message to others who might know her at the club and ask them to let me know if they see her. Sad, sweaty and sore from moving my aging 21 year old limbs to throwback music that reminds me of the last time I peaked, I make my way to the exit.
Something about the cold wind hitting your face after partying literally in the pits of hell makes Vancouver’s bizarre weather feel like an old friend. And since I can’t find the friend I actually came with (AYO), I’ll take this.
But, wait! I see clouds of smoke and like a sniffer dog my nostrils are already registering the smell of weed. I perk up, knowing that if there’s a place to find her, it’s gotta be right here, in the smoking pit of The Pit.
Call me a good friend, a prophet or simply the eighth wonder of the world, but damn, I’m correct! There she is, sharing a joint with someone I have never seen before in my life (and hope never to see again either).
Now that I’ve situated her, my stream of consciousness comes to an abrupt stop. This is all y’all get, any more words and I won’t have any left for her. And god knows, I have some things to say.
The Dingbat is The Ubyssey's humour section. Send pitches and completed pieces to blog@ubyssey.ca.