Drink Until It Feels Better

There are times in life when drinking is a good policy. And by drinking, I mean sucking down multiple bottles of alcohol at an un-Godly rate, preferably with no dinner beforehand, in order to maximize the possibility of Extreme Drunk. Generally I’m a fan of this behavior only during times of absolute emotional devastation. You know, like what the country will experience if Sarah Palin is elected Vice President. And while I know drinking really doesn’t take away the hurt, I do believe it’s a darn good option when there’s nothing else. At the very least, it makes you focus on all the idiotic things you said/did/vaguely-recall-doing-but-aren’t-too-sure-about instead of what caused the binge in the first place. In keeping with my pro-booze stance, I recently tried to drink myself out of the emotional wasteland eCrush Boy has thrown me into. It was basically just another attempt at Dealing With It. There is only so much crying, carb-overload, and self-pity I can take before I resort to more drastic measures. Enter my friend, alcohol.

My night of consumption started innocently enough. I was in my pajamas, gChatting and watching SNL online. There was a glass of wine and a mini-Reese’s Cup appetizer. I was debating pizza versus Chinese for dinner. And I had almost reached a decision based potential hotness level of the delivery guy. Basically, it was a typical low key evening. Except, a bottle and a half later, I somehow found myself dressed, hailing a cab and headed to a Georgetown bar to meet a friend.

Fast forward several hours to post-excessive-consumption me, standing in the Chez Apartment Building vestibule, trying frantically to let myself in. Drunken coordination is not something I excel at, and trying to navigate the key fob entry was particularly challenging. As I tried to place the quarter-sized fob on the giant square pad, The Pukes hit me. I needed a trash can and/or toilet. Well, anything that could double as a receptacle. STAT. Like really, really STAT.

That’s more or less when everything officially went downhill. First came the projectile Reese’s Cups, all over the apartment’s call box and the entrance fob pad thing. The back splatter covered my favorite purse, the comfy yet stylish flats I was wearing, and my pants. I’m assuming it was bad, but if I am being honest, I was oblivious to the exact Level of Gross until two days later when I was on the Metro and got around to actually looking at my purse. That particular part of the evening has since come back to haunt me. Apparently, Jamal the Hot Concierge witnessed the Stomach Spectacular on the entrance video monitor. Let’s just say getting my mail is now officially embarrassing and I’ve earned a new nickname. Anyhoosits, by the grace of Bacchus the Drinking God (and my alcohol enabler, Restaurant Refugee), I made it up to my apartment. Restaurant Refugee had gotten me food but I was in no shape to eat it. Instead, I wanted to go pass out. I vaguely recall putting my pajamas back on and telling the cats that I was going to bed. There might also have been stumbling and falling down. I don’t know. But I do know that my subconscious ordered me to grab a trashcan. I swear I heard it tell me, “Katherine, get a trashcan.” Then again, that might have been Refugee doing a solid. Regardless, the trashcan was something to aim for during the night and helped keep the reappearance of the Reese’s somewhat of localized.

The next morning, I stripped out of my vomit-covered PJs, peeled layers of dried crud off my face, and told Bionic Kitty to leave the mess alone. Careful to move my head as little as possible, I dragged myself to the bathroom. Then the 392 rounds of dry heaves began. Somewhere in there, I figured returning to the bedroom was too much effort. Who needs a bed when there’s a perfectly good bathroom floor? I spent the rest of the day curled up with a hand towel blanket and bathmat pillow. It was hangover luxury at its finest. Twelve hours later, my stomach was still touch and go, but I had basically returned to my usual level of functional.

Afterwards, I tried to explain to my best friend exactly how drunk I was during my Boys Suck Drinking Venture. Was it worse than my 21st birthday? No question. But as bad as the post-bar-exam-convinced-I-failed extravaganza? Hmmm, probably a tie. In fact, the incident was so alcoholicly debased, I suspect it made the top three on my Hangover List. I hate that list. It’s painful to think about. Partially because of how I feel post-booze, but mainly because my most memorable hangovers are linked to Bad Things. When celebration is in order, I just drink. When Planet Katherine is seriously off kilter, there is full-on liver murder. And because of eCrush, I had a night of Drink To Kill.


8 Responses to “Drink Until It Feels Better”

  1. suz Says:

    Livers are for lovers.

  2. restaurantrefugee Says:

    I have no recollection of these events.

  3. restaurantrefugee Says:

    and maybe this tag will take your mind off these things.

  4. Kat Says:

    Having had a few (okay, several (okay, many)) Drink to Kill nights of my own, I sympathize! Congrats on emerging alive.

  5. Melissa Says:

    I’m just glad you didn’t have to get your stomach pumped. I hope it helped.

  6. E Says:

    Correct me if I’m wrong, but that seems a teeny tiny bit… hmmm.

  7. Herb Says:

    I got a hangover just from reading this. I hope you are feeling better.

  8. A Says:

    I had a very similar experience this past weekend that involved nearly 4 bottles of wine and a sushi dinner, and a horrendous campout on the bathroom floor that night/morning!!

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