Know Your Limit, Fly Above It

This may as well be a portrait of me Saturday night slash Sunday morning instead of an Anne Geddes picture gone horribly awry. That is to say it would be a picture of me if I was Asian...and an infant...in a bumblebee costume. My memories of that night are pretty hazy so I may very well have been in a bee outfit, I mean I bought it for a reason right? Why not show it off at the clubs?

After bouncing between going out and not going out at least 6 or 7 times (no exaggeration), Crystal, Sean, Jay and myself got our asses downtown for a night of debauchery and alcohol-fuelled mood swings. We met up with Louroz who introduced us to his friends who were pretty much fitness models born to make me feel as unattractive as humanly possible. Not that they did it on purpose because they appeared to be one of those freakish anomalies--really attractive people who are genuinely nice too. The kicker was that they were together for almost 4 years. Be good looking, be nice, but at least have the decency to be a slutty wreck incapable of holding down a relationship between latenight tricks and alleyway coke binges. The fact we were with Mr. and Mr. Smith combined with the fact I cannot dance if my veins aren't coursing with tequila meant I started drinking right away. Jay had all of two shots before he was high as a kite. I of course was green with envy that he got drunk so fast; enter the sambuca portion of the evening. This game of catchup inevitably caught up with me and I don't remember anything in the latter part of the night.

Except puking. I remember being in Crystal's car and filling one of those HMV bags pretty much to capacity.....and then filling another one. I was such a mess and the only two thoughts in my head were "I'm so embarrassed" and "That smell in Earl's car was definitely puke". The feeling of embarrassment was compounded when I realized I had missed the bag slightly on one occasion and a bit had landed in Crystal's car. Correction: a bit had landed in Crystal's Mom's car. With multiple mea culpas and a sense of shame similar to a virgin's after prom night, I stumbled home.

My mom says she heard me come in around 4. The thing is when I looked at my phone it said it was 6:30. It didn't dawn on me until the next day but I must have passed out in the laundry room while getting my pajamas--perhaps on the floor, perhaps nestled between the washer and dryer, I guess I'll never know. There was no way I was going to sleep without harfing out that last bit of booze so in the washroom I did my best to coax it to the surface. It is then I realized I have a very temperamental gag reflex. When I am brushing my tongue or the doctor puts a depressor in my mouth I am always ready to heave, but when I am hunched over my bathroom sink with my fingers so far down my throat I can feel my heart beat, I get nothing--go figure.

I fell into a deep slumber awoken around noon by an insatiable need for orange pop. And so I drank said orange pop, immediately threw said orange pop back up, lamented my existence, openly wept over the toilet, then headed back to bed. I was awoken at 6:00 p.m. by a phone call. 6 in the frickin' evening! Good thing, as my parents came home at around 6:20 and were curious as to why I was still in pajamas. My mom being the Nancy Drew she is figured it all out right away. My dad who absolutely abhors drunks was not pleased to say the least, and so at 7:00 p.m. I started on my chores that had been neglected through my day of sleep. I scrubbed harder and cleaned more thoroughly than I ever have. A potent mix of Portuguese and Catholic guilt, I was high on humiliation and chemically dependent on Clorox, Vim and Windex to wipe it all away.