I woke up this morning, as I often do on Sundays, on the floor of my apartment outside of the bathroom with the taste of vomit in my mouth. Since then I've spent the day waiting for my agonizing headache and nausea to go away while watching DVDs. Netflix is a hangover's best friend.
I started Saturday night, as I often do, promising myself that I would leave the party before things got too wild and I got too drunk. There was a better chance of it happening than usual- the party was scheduled to move at midnight to another venue, at which point I would make my exit.
The sad part is that I left before midnight and I was already drunk enough to black out.
It was Phil's birthday and he hosted a small gathering of friends at his new apartment in the Western Addition. I went to the party with Rich the Bitch, who was feeling sick with a cold. His illness, I thought, was additional insurance that I would leave the event early when he did. And it was Rich the Bitch's involvement that eventually caused me to leave, but not in the expected manner.
The party was filled mostly with old friends that I met at the Pilsner many years ago- Donovan, Ted, Matthew, etc. I had not been in the room with all of them at the same time in years. This naturally added to the festive mood and increased the rate of social and alcoholic lubrication.
Additionally, several of the people were current or former bartenders, which means that not only would there be shots in between mixed drinks, but that mixed drinks were consumed at a rate of one per every 20 minutes.
This is an important point, because we only arrived at the party at 9:30PM.
Everything was going along fine for a while. Rich the Bitch commented on how his mood had improved and his illness abated the more drunk he was became. I agreed that I, too, was having fun. Then suddenly it was two hours later and Rich the Bitch was missing. I had passed from tipsy into trashed and probably did and said several things to embarrass myself.
My friends have come to expect this, so I feel no remorse.
Suddenly my phone rang. It was Rich the Bitch. I hadn't realized he'd left, but he'd obviously been gone for a while because he was already home. He was calling me from a pay phone near his house, because he had lost his keys somewhere between the party and his apartment. (He was calling from a pay phone because last week he lost his cell phone somewhere between a party and his apartment.) You can see why we get along.
I agreed to meet him at my apartment, where I would bring the keys if I found them at the party and give him my spare copy if I didn't. So the party was searched and I had great fun saying goodbye to everyone while sharing the story of Rich the Bitch losing his possessions. We all had a chuckle and I felt that I was the hit of the party.
Later I realized I had forgotten my umbrella when I left.
When I got home it suddenly became very clear, is it often does, that I was really quite astonishingly wasted and I was going to have a serious problem getting through the night and the rest of the next day. Also, I had to wait up for Rich the Bitch to get to my house.
I remember thinking, "What is taking him so long?" over and over for what seemed like hours. It was probably only 20 minutes, of course, and then things got messy.
At no point while I was awake did Rich the Bitch show up. Perhaps he beat me to my place while I was saying my long goodbyes at the party, and left before I arrived. Perhaps he came later while I was unconsious. Where he spent the night I do not know, but it sure wasn't at his place.
I don't remember the particulars of the vomiting episode, and I doubt you'd like me to share them with you if I did. But usually when I wake up on the floor that means I strategically placed myself there so that I could crawl to the bathroom to continue barfing after I lost the ability to stand.
And that, my fans, is just one more night in my achingly glamorous life.