Aright I got one.
I lived in what you’d call a typical “punk house” about ten years ago.
Here’s a few details, just to give you a general flavour of the place we called home. [Tip: skip to paragraph 3 if you want the TLDR version]
The place was pretty small, and there were only three of us living there, but there was usually a weekly rotation of down-and-out friends crashing on the couch - they pulled their weight by cleaning up after our EPIC horrendous alcohol & substance fueled parties.
We had a little alcove that we blocked off by putting a couch in front of it, and it served as the final resting place for any 40oz beverages consumed on said couch. We had a dartboard on the wall back there, and we’d nail photos of people on it who were on our shitlist that week/month, such as local politicians, ex-girlfriends, etc. The game was you’d finish your beer, then whip it backwards overhand, trying to smash it on the target’s face.
Over time, this resulted in a good 2 foot pile of broken glass behind the couch (which no-one gave a shit about).
One night, I went to a gig downtown. The folks at home were throwing a huge party, but for whatever reason I wasn’t interested,
so I stayed out real late trying to wait it out. My goal was to come home with a lady I’d met earlier that night, and not have to subject her to the company of my friends (and the ritual verbal abuse and bullying we all practiced regularly back then).
That plan didn’t work. I didn’t account for the fact that “waiting it out” meant that I’d be just as likely to continue drinking wherever I was,
so by the time 3AM rolled around, I was absolutely shitfaced.
My lady friend decided that it’d be better if I just went home to sleep it off and we’d meet again later that week. Looking back, that was a wise move.
I got home somehow around 4-ish, and in the dark, armed only with the light of my ancient flip-phone, tiptoed stumbled clumsily around several passed out bodies in the living room, and decided while passing through the kitchen that I had better eat something before bed.
*I forgot to mention earlier that we all worked at the same job, which produced these large plastic bags of bacon trimmings in our fridge, which is an important piece of this story.
So I heated up a frying pan in the pitch dark kitchen (ceiling fixture broken, fridge lightbulb also dead), and started dropping handfuls of finger length bacon into it. I’m standing there listening to it sizzle, eating it straight from the pan like a real civilized gentleman, in the dim glow of the red light that indicates the burner being on… then suddenly it’s morning and my neighbours (who we were constantly at war with, a whole other story) are barbequing.
At the first whiff of the meat they’re cooking, I gag a little and feel a terrible pain in my stomach. As I get up and head for the bathroom, my head also starts pounding, which was pretty cool as well.
After spending about 20 minutes on the toilet, firing out both ends, I hear my roommate call out: "who left the fridge open all fucking night!? The whole place reeks like rotten meat!"
She shows me the bag (about 1/2 empty now) and it’s got white and blue fuzz growing on top of the partially discoloured bacon. The bacon I had enjoyed so much last night.
I spent a good portion of that and the next day on the toilet as well.