Sunday, October 04, 2009

I like drinking.

I woke up spread-eagle on a completely deflated air mattress at 10am. I slowly opened one crusty eye, felt yesterday’s makeup tear my eyelashes out, and looked to my left: Cleavage in the fetal position beside me. TheHubby on the bare floor beside her. Above me, TheHippie’s leg, dangling from the couch. I squinted and could just make out TheCorporate and QueenB passed out in QueenB’s bed. I was still wearing my bar shirt but not my push-up bra. I was still drunk.

QueenB stumbled out of the bedroom.

“Who wants breakfast?”


I cheerily scarfed down eggs and a muffin, full of drunken zest for life. And then we started talking about last night.

TheHubby fixed his eyes on me.

“Do you remember asking if you could puke on the lawn, and then trying to do it?”


“Do you remember walking barefoot down the streets and yelling that you probably had AIDS as a result?”


“Do you remember puking in QueenB’s bathroom for 20 minutes?”

That explains the sore throat.

“Do you remember passing out in QueenB’s bed?”

What? How did I wind up on the air mattress? Lies.

“Do you remember me trying to physically drag you out of the bed, and you whining about how comfortable you were and to leave you alone?”

Absolutely not. This did not happen. I do not black out.

That’s when Cleavage chimed in.

“I had to shake your shoulders for 10 minutes to keep you awake. You would not move.”

Pretty smug from someone who slept on the bathroom floor Friday night, spooning the heater.

And then QueenB spoke up.

“I got home 20 minutes later and you were spread eagle on my side of the bed. Not just in my bed, but on my side. So I told you to get the hell out and you ran to the air mattress like a scared little bitch.”

Well. That’s because I do anything you tell me, alpha-bitch.

TheHippy kept quiet through this entire humiliating exchange. But later, as she drove me to the train station, she made a confession.

“Don’t feel bad. I woke up on the bathroom floor at 8am with no pants whatsoever and no idea what happened.”

Oh thank god.

Anyway, after breakfast I had a little nap with TheHippy. She spooned me. It’s the only advantage of being the lowest bitch in our alpha hierarchy – I’m always the little spoon. I have to do whatever I’m told, but I get cuddled.

I woke up at noon, this time not drunk.

Oh sweet jesus in heaven. Here comes the dry heaves. I tried to remember just how much I drank. There were many birthday shots. 6? Probably 4 vodka redbulls. That explains the shakes. And god knows how many gins. 8? 12? 30? I’m sure I danced like a sweaty, epileptic munchkin. TheHubby said I aggressively grinded his genitals in a corner of the dance floor. God only knows who else got dry-humped. You’re welcome, TheBigCity.

So, the weekend was a great success. We consumed at least 40,000 calories each, mostly in cheese form. I drank myself into a blackout. Two out of 8 of us slept on the bathroom floor. Two out of 8 puked. Two wore shirts as dresses to the bar. One of us cried while standing in line for post-bar poutine. TheHippy and I discovered that we’re blood twins: we’re both O+, we both got our very first periods at Guide Camp, and after one night together out uteruses were back in sync. It’s starting to get weird, actually. We’re like twins who were separated at birth, but I’m the parasite twin who feeds off her.

But anyway, this weekend made me love life again.

So, maybe I’m a train-wreck. Maybe I’m a total fucking disaster, and I’m going to go to debt jail and be evicted and have my cat taken away by social services.

But I love my fucked-up, disastrous, train-wreck of a life.

And, apparently, so do you.


1 comment:

The Science Manly said...

HA! Parasitic twin.

My weekend was amazingly improved by that only lovely comment.

I wonder which one I am with my twin: The parasite or the host