This one is a little personal:
I have once again drunkenly out-done myself. I didn’t think I could possibly get any better, but apparently I can with the help of my old, deceitful friend, Mr. Vodka.
Please believe me when I say that this was truly an accident. I swear on my beloved, deceased, best friend, Tuffy. Clearly, I did not remember New Years’ Eve of 2006 when Mr. Vodka and I first hooked up…which ended in regret the next morning, which was when I decided to swear off of him and all of his flavored friends. I just couldn’t trust myself alone with them.
Fast forward two years later: Disco, Drugs and Drag Queens is the theme and the celebrated event, my roommates birthday. I was persuaded to wear ridiculously sexy, leather-looking leggings of the Lindsay Lohan fashion with a slinky gold top, and needless to say, I was scared. I have short stubs for legs and the top was held together with one little string. Never in my life have I considered myself “sexy” nor purposely dressed the part; so a good stiff drink was in order. Having also been a little tired from the previous night, I decided to mix my Rockstar energy drink with vodka. Who knew that Rockstar would mask the taste of vodka so well? I kept topping my drink off with vodka thinking there wasn’t enough in it because I couldn’t taste it…I had two red cups of this mixture before the party even started…plus a shot of Goldschlagger to get the party started…
As my roommate Kiss described, it was as if I had an “on/off switch”. One minute I was fine, the next, I was all over the place. I could have been running around naked and I wouldn’t have even cared. I was dancing, DJ’ing and dancing some more. At one point I ran to my room for whatever reason (probably to find my phone and then proceed to drunk text) when my computer caught my eye. I immediately got on and started drunkenly chatting with friends. At one point I remember how incredibly difficult it was becoming to type and the next…? I got a text from a particular friend whom I was really looking forward to seeing/snoogling/hanging out with that said he wouldn’t be making it to the party…it was all over after that…unfortunately, another friend got the brunt of my anguish over this situation via internet chatting and I didn’t even really realize it until the next morning. That was the most painful conversation I have ever had to reread in my life. And embarrassing beyond words. I can only imagine what this person must think of me; especially since he has not talked to me since and I’m too ashamed to do anything about it. When I told a friend of mine this story, she assured me, “This will be funny in a few months, it is now. [He probably thinks] that you’re a crazy bitch. Hahahaha. It’s cool. Take comfort in the fact that you’re not, and that makes it even funnier.” And she’s right. So that’s what I’m trying to do.
After I made that mess, came the uncontrollable tears. Huge alligator tears that I just couldn’t stop from crying despite my best efforts. I literally cried all of my make up off and was a mascara-tear streaked mess. I really wish I had a picture of what I had looked like. When I try to imagine it, I get that Hole album cover in my head, the “Live Through This” one; only 10 times worse. I know I must have been sobbing pretty hard because my eyes were all swollen the next morning. It’s amazing the way Mr. Vodka can fuck with me and intensify my emotions.
Around 3am a friend woke me up to check on me. I immediately ran to the bathroom to rid myself of the bottle of rubbing alcohol I must have drank–that’s what it smelled like anyway. As I stood up, I caught myself in the mirror–hair wildly disheveled, make up completely gone, and one false eyelash still attached with my party clothes on. I couldn’t help but laugh at myself and wonder what in the hell happened.
So, to those of you that I missed at the party because I locked myself in my room and passed out wasted around 11:15pm, I apologize. I’m sorry I missed all the dancing and debauchery to be had. And to the person who I wrote, “Please don’t ever see me again” (or maybe it was “talk to me again”? I’m not sure, I erased the conversation because it was too terrible to keep) and spewed word vomit all over, I am sincerely sorry. I paid for it the next morning, believe me.
And to the man–nay, the boy who made me cry, I still hate you. (Not really, but it makes me feel better to write that…and with time, I’ll get over you just as easily as you seem to have gotten over me.)
goodnight, rose 