The Best Time I Threw Up … During the Holidays!
I was massively sauced during the company holiday party last week. This means, I, yes, grabbed a bottle of wine off the bar once everyone had trickled out of the venue and guzzled it in front of the poor waiters who had been watching me patiently as they bussed the tables. It also means I went to the after-party for mid-level employees and gave a toast the content of which I have no recollection.
It also means I was told by the girlfriend of my BFF office buddy that I “didn’t need another drink.” At which point I asked the nearest person why they were nursing their Jameson ginger and if I could help relieve them of their burden. And then, “no, no, I think you need to sit down, Charlie,” someone mumbled.
I swayed to the bathroom and noticed a loose piece of tile on the floor, which I picked up and pocketed as if it were the best discovery in the world; a treasure meant especially for me.
Then someone put me in a cab (thanks second tier office BFF who is gay and has the best taste in Brit pop). Things were fading mega. The cab driver correctly assumed I was soused out of my mind and kept asking me if I knew where I was going. Did I? Probably not … I don’t remember saying shit to him. Fortunately, I recognized my homeland — the desolate village we call Vinegar Hill — just before he asked me once more if I knew were I was going.
“Just let me out here! I know exactly where I am! You’ve been asking me that the entire time! I know where I am! Where do YOU get off?! Let me out here. I’ll walk the rest of the way. And guess what, I’M NOT PAYING YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
I didn’t pay him. Blah blah. Anyway, I had to call an ex-boyfriend, who met me down the street from my apartment. I was splayed out on the cobblestones like so much rubbish, and he helped me in. I was severely incapacitated at that point, but I made it.
Yes I threw up, but, ever the clean freak, I wasn’t drunk enough NOT to clean it up. Some of it, anyway. I was fooling around with a guy in my bed a few days later and was on the rag so I didn’t want to have sex. I noticed a red spot on the sheets and thought I thought I had bled through my pants. I didn’t; it was some crimson-colored barf I had managed to miss. HAPPY HOLIDAYS.
Charlie lives in Brooklyn. She also writes for The Awl.