Damn you, PEI.
Damn you straight to hell.

If those notches on the headboard of my bed were an indication of the number of provinces I have thrown up in, as opposed to the women I have slept with, there would now be three notches instead of two and a half.

Someone should have warned me that when you order a red beer in PEI it comes as half beer and half sand. Someone also should have warned me that when someone says PEI "is cold", what they mean is that your testicles will freeze into ice pellets if you stumble drunk through the streets of Charlotteown for more than three minutes. Lastly, and take this as my warning to you, don't end your evening doing shots of Fireball Whiskey in the back of a moving vehicle. Just take my word for it.

Add the three together and I'm now much like the province itself: impotent, barren, and squeezing out nothing but mounds of red mud.

We start our evening at a church hall for an all ages punk rock show. My brain, confused by listening to such music without the room spinning, forces my body out into the frigid air for the occasional warming effects of Fireball Whiskey. It kicks in just in time for a rousing set by Be Bad and Gilbert Switzer. After fleeing early to avoid cancer of the ears (aka the headliners), we head to the Charlottetown equivalent of the Shoe Shop. There we ingest sandy beer and martinis named after emotions I'm quite familiar with. From there it's on to Hunter's for new favourite band The Tragedies and more sandy beer. Then it's back into the car, more shots from the bottle, increased spins, incoherent babbling, and back to the home of a kind family of some friends to sleep.

And vomit.

All in all, good times had by all.