A Danger to Self & Others

7 10 2008

At Ben’s request, here is me at my alcoholic worst.  It was a struggle to chose just one when the options are so plentiful:

  • Getting mistaken for a prostitute by cops in London. 
  • “Breaking it in” party – where we actually broke in the door. Serious. We shattered the doorframe.
  • Last Halloween’s wastoid face plant outside the capitol building that ripped my shirt  – completely exposing my rack (much less attractive when the girl’s face is bleeding & she remains completely unaware).
  • Reader beware: if you are male, you might hate me after reading this.


    A little introduction:
    The summer after studying/working in London I tried (and failed) to maintain my tolerance.  In London, we partied nonstop, and 5 straight shots of vodka was considered pre-game.  Being home meant ZERO alcohol as I was only 20 & living with my strict parents.  Unfortunately, I figured my tolerance would remain the same despite the 2months sans alcohol. (ah to be young & stupid!)

    Mr. Opportunity studied London same the semester. We were no more than poker buddies with a common high school.  When we went abroad, we realized we had tons in common and met up in central on several occasions.  Lots in common – but no spark.  When we returned stateside, he showed interest (which I encouraged until I met Indie).  By the time of this story, I had told him twice already that I only wanted to be friends.


    Music Festival Mishaps
    My cousin (aka former Roomie) invited me down to the city for a weekend during the huge two week long music festival.  Our game plan was to drink-til-drunk at the boyfriend’s and then walk to the festival grounds to catch some band or other.  CL & Mr.Opportunity joined us.

    7:00 – Vodka mixed drinks & vodka shots – heavy on the vodka. I was determined to show off my rockin tolerance.  Sure enough, I could still drink vodka like water.  Rum & gin were introduced to the night.  I remained seated for the majority of this time – excepting a few dance offs to Africa by Toto.   Mr.Opportunity used his position seated next to me to continually try to put his arm around me.  I’d swat it away every time.

    Drink count: NINE

    9:30 – We downed our last drinks before heading to the festival.  We are all wasted, but I’m the worst. My last full memory is of nearly falling as I stood up & grabbed my purse.  From here on out the story is what I’ve been told by CL, Roomie, & Mr. Opportunity. 

    Mr.O takes charge of walking me to the festival grounds.  As we walk & talk, he keeps putting his arm around me and trying to kiss me.  I have a fleeting memory of standing in the middle of the sidewalk makeing out with him then pushing him away and telling him off for kissing me.  This happened all night. He’d kiss me – I’d go along with it – Push him away – Get angry & Tell him off – He’d kiss me again… and on and on.

    10:00 – The gate to the grounds is in sight. It suddenly occurs to me that my purse is no longer on my shoulder.  It’s GONE. I yell to alert group to this disaster, take off my flipflops & bolt in the opposite direction.

    10-11:00 – Spent chasing around the edge of the grounds trying to find the woman who had found my purse and brought it to the police setup.  CL & Mr.O were holding me up.  Roomie & her boyfriend were in ExtremeFightMode.

    11:30 – Get purse back. It still has my Coach wallet, credit cards, social security card, digital camera, & cell phone.  Missing:  $50 cash.

    Roomie chases her boyfriend home where they scream & chuck shoes at each other before having sex & passing out.

    CL & Mr. O attempt to get a cab.  This whole time I am still in the cyclical Makeout/TellOff/Makeout/TellOff.  (encourage/discourage? crazy much?)

    Midnight – Cab arrives.  As we drive to Mr. O’s apt, I proceed to tell him off again for touching/kissing/bothering me.  To express my anger, I punch him in the junk. 

    Yes. You can hate me now.

    12:20 – There’s a party happening at Mr.O’s place.  I spend time in the bathroom puking my guts out while CL tells me nice things. She helps me brush my teeth, and we go back out to the party.

    2:00ish – Three of us crash in Mr.O’s room.  He & I are sharing his air mattress (classy) and CL curls up on the floor in a corner.   The corner complains “omg. Will you two STOP making out and GO TO SLEEP” several times.  We dont.*  She doesn’t leave the room.

    ??? – I tell Mr.O that I want to have sex but with a boyfriend.  I tell him I want a boyfriend.  He asks if I like him.  I say No.**

    Morning – Corner says “omg. You two would NOT stop making out last night. Not cool.”  I say “Where’s my skirt?”

    Don’t be a Jonze


    *OMG. OMG. Who the fuck makes out with a girl with no memory who has just spent the last hour throwing up???? AND punches them in the junk? disgusting.
    ** Somehow this was interpreted as I wanted him to be my boyfriend… not sure how.




    7 responses

    7 10 2008

    Wow. All I can say is that I’m a better person for reading this.

    7 10 2008

    ouch…not the junk punch…

    8 10 2008

    That was an entertaining night. And in hindsight, telling drunk people (or, just one) to stop making out is like telling the sun not to shine. It’s inevitable, and should be tolerated or left alone.

    It happens, I think we’re gonna need a similar night (plus and minus a few things) soon.

    8 10 2008

    I can’t even county how many times I’ve lost my purse while drunk. 15 ish? At least.

    9 10 2008

    omg, i can’t believe that you still call him mr. opportunity.


    …the rest of it, i believe 🙂

    15 10 2008
    No Ordinary Hangover: Binge Bloggers Contest

    […Let’s check out the entries, shall we?…]

    16 10 2008

    Every entry from Ben’s contest I read, I recall another fitting anecdote from my own life as a lush… uh oh. Your story cracked me up, but also reminded me of how troublesome boys can be, as a drunk girl. After a music festival I attended, I apparently walked home with/was walked home by a male friend. We probably made out. Thankfully didn’t sleep together. But I do know that he slept in my bed, that I puked on my pillow case and then tore off all the sheets, pushing him out of my bed, and then woke up in the morning alone on a mattress – only piecing together the who, what, how (though not the why) through friends’ recollections the next day. Oops.

    Blog with my hangover entry: http://melissaleeanne.blogspot.com/


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