Wednesday, January 18, 2006

FauxHawk vs. Vodka: The Night the Romance Died.

You know how relationships can be. In the beginning, it’s all fireworks and sexiness and romance. Eventually, things start to progress into a more comfortable zone (a.k.a. I’m not gonna shave if you’re not, and pass the remote, you ho), and then before you know it it’s a Friday night and you’re both un-showered, wearing underwear with holes in them, and eating Chinese food out of the tins they came in and you’re left wondering when exactly the romance died. This didn’t happen with me and FauxHawk. I didn’t have to wonder. The romance died December 12th, 2004, at approximately 4pm. We had been dating 3 months.

The night before, FauxHawk wrote his last exam and was out partying with his other Med School friends. I was studying for my GRE, which was the next morning, when I got my first clue that FauxHawk was having an exceptionally royal night. At 11pm, he called me to say he just drank a 40 of vodka and ghfkskforodja;asdlfk ok byeshexy! Or at least, that’s what I heard. I couldn’t put much thought into it- GREs ahoy!

That next morning, I had just gotten back from the 4 hour exhausting exam and was crawling into bed for the first sleep in 2 days when my housemate told me that I’d better pick up the phone. It was FauxHawk. It’s still hard to say, but I think he was crying.

FauxHawk: *deep breath* Peach?
Peach: Are you ok?
FH: Can you, um, come overz?
Peach: Ya, I just need to nap for a few hours and then eat something and shower and –
FH: No, I mean can yoush come overz right now? *retch*
Peach: But I’m sleeping.
FH: I think I need to go to za hospital *sob*
Peach:…just let me put my pants back on.

After a quick refresher course in first-aid from TheNurse and a speedy cab ride, I arrived to FauxHawk’s apartment and was greeted by the smell of vomit, sweat, and fear.

FauxHawk: Peach? I’m in za bedroom. MOOOOAAAAAN.

I entered and found my sexy med-school boyfriend naked, spooning a garbage can half-full of vomit, smelling like a vodka factory. He was at the still vomiting every 2 minutes but out of stomach contents phase. It’s a bad phase. I started by trying to force-feed him some water. That solved the no stomach content with which to vomit problem. I rubbed his back. He vomited. I stroked his hair. More vomit. I decided to stop touching him.

FauxHawk: I need to go to za hospital *shudder*.
Peach: Are you sure you’re not just very hungover?
FH: Call me an ambulance!!! I know thish, I’m in med school.
Peach: You sure are. You suuure are. Let’s get you dressed.

Let me point out that I had to fight tooth and nail to convince him that he didn’t need an ambulance, but would in fact probably live long enough to take a cab the 6 blocks to the hospital. Also, have you ever tried to put boxer-briefs on a half-dead body twice your weight? Needless to say he went commando that day, and without socks, in the loosest clothes I could locate.

I literally had to drag him to the elevator, where he passed out on the floor, and into the cab, where he passed out spooning the child-seat, and then into the ER, where he passed out in the middle of the waiting-room floor. We were seen immediately.

He was put in observation but it would take hours before he saw a Doctor. In the mean time, the following hilarious events took place:

FauxHawk had to pee. The nurse told me how to hold his pee-cup for him. I told her we’d only been dating 3 months. He held his own pee cup. But I had to give it back to the nurse. Make a note – THAT was officially when the romance died.

I had to pee. I told FauxHawk I would be right back. Another nurse told him “don’t worry, you’re sister or girlfriend or whatever she is will be right back”. I got excited at this point. You see, FauxHawk and I hadn’t fully defined our relationship yet, and I was constantly wondering if I was his girlfriend or not. Would this, finally, be the answer I was hoping for?

FauxHawk: She’s not my sister.

What a fucker.

Finally, he saw a doctor. The head of the Ontario Medical Association, to be exact. He made FauxHawk write his own orders and quizzed him about what his test results meant before he would give him any gravol. By the way, he didn’t have alcohol poisoning or anything. He just drank himself comatose. FauxHawk looked so pathetic, I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. Poor drunken fool.

2 hours later, the gravol had worked, FauxHawk felt like a new man (“where are my underwear?”), and I took him home. I felt (and looked) sicker than he did at this point, since I hadn't eaten, slept, or groomed in any way in 2 days.

We went drinking the next night.

The Peach.

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