Like so many of us, my drunken moments are depressing if not downright concerning. Considering the fact that I do NOT need an intervention in my life right now (I’m on a roll here!) I will tell you about one of the moments that I can look back on now, and muster a hearty, belly-rolicking chuckle.
Let’s set the scene: It’s prom night. No, not high-school prom—my 22 year-old boyfriend, who didn’t have enough sense to avoid knocking a 17-year-old up, did have enough (or was it shame?) to refuse to take me to that one.
Fast-forward to my next prom going opportunity. Hastings. Law. School. Prom. Also known as “Barristers Ball.” Open Bar. Top-Shelf Liquor. Marble Floors (in hindsight, a terrible and dangerous idea—in fact, I’m surprised none of the assholes I go to school with have sued over it yet). And bless those bartenders, they didn’t cut anyone off—the whole night! Imagine the most stressed-out group of students finally letting loose with unlimited Patron, Makers’, and Grey Goose.
What does this all add up to, you ask? Well let me just let you in on some of the incidents that happened to others, which I fortunately (or unfortunately?) missed out on: Public sexing. Cracked heads and hospital beds. And yes—a law dude punched a hefty security guard after he tried to break up a cat fight between two hissing law females who were fighting over the law dude (who is not that hot, btw).
So this is my big night. I invited a bunch of my homies who are NOT in law-school (cause that’s how I roll). I’ve gotten crafty and made all us dames corsages to match our dresses—and we look awesome.
We ride a charter bus to the venue. While the law students on the bus begin chanting some inaudible law school related chant, my crew (holding down the back of the bus—booyah!) chime in with a healthy round of “Vodka Power! Vodka Power! Vodka Power!” We get to the venue. I had a drink and another and another and another. The booze is flowing HARD. People are usurping bottles of the best shit and taking it back to their tables. And everyone is bringing me drinks! Table service, bitches!!!
I begin to blackout at this point. Hours pass and my friends decide to take the earlier charter bus back. Thank FUCKING god. On the way out, I take a spill in my heels on the marble floor (slippery with puke and booze at this point—I slipped in the latter, thankfully). My crew peels me up and hoists me outside. I thank god we took the earlier bus because if we had taken the later one, all of my cohorts would have witnessed the next hour of shame. And in law circles, image and rep is everything (*retching sound and gesture!*).
All I remember of the walk back to the charter bus is gray wool … the gray wool of my friends’ suit that I was leaning on while being drag-carried. We get on the bus. At this point I’m drifting in and out of blackness, but the one thing I remember is how fucking long that ride was. Thankfully, there were only four people on the bus other than our group (fist pump!) We sit in the back. My head slumps in between my legs and I start puking all over the floor fifteen minutes into the ride. I can barely keep myself up and apparently I didn’t all the way, because my knees, hands, and shoes were covered in my filthy puke by the end of the ride.
I don’t remember getting off the bus. But I am told that I went outside, get on all fours, and immediately continued puking. My friend comes over and pulls my hiked-up dress down—my panty-hoed ass is giving a nice salute to everybody at this point—including the busdriver who is pointing at me and asking my friends angrily, “did she puke on the bus—there’s puke everywhere back there!” My friend looks back at me—still retching in the bushes—and reply, “who her? No way man!” The bus driver turns around to look at the back of the bus, and my friends grab me and RUN! (No, no, not me! I was being drag-carried again, of course).
Oh yeah—and I peed my bed that night.
Marble floor image courtesy of lastonein, flickr.