Tuesday, October 25, 2011

Missing: one earring, pint of blood, dignity

BOY was I riding a high horse of I don't get black out shit faced pass out on the kitchen table in a pile of cold macaroni and cheese drunk on my birthday anymore on Friday. Because you know what I did on Saturday? I got a wee bit tipsy.

On Saturday I went out to dinner with a large group of family and friends and once I got a few martinis in me, I was rubber-faced before the main course even arrived. I imagine by the time we walked over to the bar, the words coming out of my mouth were mostly incoherent and possibly aggressive slurs.

When I woke up on Sunday morning I wasn't sure if I was lying in a grisly murder scene or a drunk asshole's bedroom. I was fully clothed, my sheets were covered with blood, and I had evidently taken the time before collapsing into to bed to fling a laundry basket of questionably clean clothes, a pile of books, and a few glasses of water all over the room, including all over my alarm clock. Why? I have no idea. A fit of rage? A feng shui adjustment? The voices told me to? So yeah, I suppose it was a birthday success.

The source of the blood, of course, was from my elbow which, incidentally, was my last memory of the evening but once they put on Bruce Springsteen and you know what? Nevermind, let's not get into it. But let's just say that it's Tuesday morning and I'm still bleeding from the arm and I am beginning to think that yes, maybe I should have gotten those stitches but that would have been, just, like, so annoying and someone get me another round!

And of course, my birthday present to myself was a hangover so bad I couldn't look anyone in the eyes on Sunday. I was cold, shaking, pale, watering in the back of the throat, and struggling to form complete sentences. I tried to mask my misery with the largest ice coffee I could get my palsied hands on and a giant cinnamon sugar bagel but nothing was kicking this doozie. Loaves of bread and all the bacon grease you could fit into an oil barrel would not have been able to undo what I did. I felt physically ill until late Monday afternoon. I was sickeningly jealous of everyone else in the world who felt normal while I wandered around in my sub-human state of misery.

Naturally, as each year gives me worse and worse hangovers, I can only imagine what I have in store for myself in the future. By the time I get to my 30th birthday, I assume I'll be hungover until my 31st birthday. Guh.

Thanks for all the birthday loving, friends. You really took care of me this year. And I will get you back for that.

The screen door slams
Mary's dress waves ...


Deidre said...

This sounds like a totally successful birthday!

Again Happy 27!

Sunny said...

Yeah that right there is the problem with birthdays; with each passing one it's not how much you drink, it's just that the recovery time takes longer and longer. It's gonna suck when you turn 50. Trust me on this. But hey, the good news is, you've got 23 birthdays til it sucks!


Blog Widget by LinkWithin