I have very little self-control. Most of the time, this manifests itself in watching an entire season of The Sopranos in one weekend. Other times, well… you’ve seen my obnoxious social media presence. However, the worst times include this poisonous substance we all seem to be familiar with that’s called alcohol.
(I think I’m this)
(I’m really this)
So inspired by Chris Gethard (who actually had a real alcohol problem and is not just a total idiot), I decided to reveal my stories usually reserved for fun bar-talk. You should feel lucky. I’m really fun to be at a bar with. And now you won’t ever want to drink with me again. Here we go.
1) Peeing by the West Side Highway
Freshman year is about making new friends, being in a new city, and having no idea what limits mean. Every Thursday night, a couple blocks in Chelsea grow crowded with gallery openings and free wine. While the majority of the people are there for art, there is a distinct minority of assholes who take shots of wine and get plastered at 7 pm.
Considering we had very skewed visions of geography, after gallery night we walked along the Highline, thinking it would lead us back to our dorm on 10th and Broadway. We were wrong.
And maybe it was a realization I would not be home for a very long time, or maybe it was just the mere sight of the Hudson River, but I straight up let the dam flood. My friend was the only one who noticed the very conspicuous puddle forming underneath me. And I made him promise he would never tell anyone. Thanks Marcelo. Sorry you had to sit next to me in that cab.
2) Cleaning Up My Own Dried Vomit
The summer between freshman and sophomore year was a trying time. I was working at Forever 21 when I was very much Temporarily 19, still underage and still hating everything. A high school friend had her house to herself the whole weekend so naturally we partied the only way 19 year olds know how – pounding cheap beer someone’s brother’s girlfriend bought.
Blackouts and throwing up happen all the time. I’m not going to recount every single one of them here… though I probably do it more than most because I’m mentally challenged. But the worst part about this one was hanging out at this girl’s house the next day.
“Hey can I talk to you for a minute?” she pulled me into the bathroom. I was curious… was there drama?? She the proceeded to close the lid of the toilet that was covered in dried vomit that was the pigment of red only regurgitated enchiladas and failed beer pong games could create.
“Can you clean this up?” She handed me a sponge.
So while I heard everyone in the room next door laughing and watching TV, I was scrubbing down my own mess that I had no recollection of putting there.
I thought, at the time, this is it. This is the low point. This is the wake-up call.
3) Cutting Open my Head in a Subway Platform
Somewhere in Park Slope, I decided my body was invincible to any kind of substance. And somewhere along the F train, I slipped (was it water?) and fell backward and hit my head against a subway column. (it’s ok, I’m ok.)
I guess we took an ambulance? But my blackout ended somewhere around 2 am in the hospital. The good news is that I didn’t have a concussion, the bad news is that my BAC level was over 0.1. The thing is, there are low points, and then there are low points. And when you’re still wasted with someone stapling your head in a Bushwick hospital bed while you stare at someone with a gunshot wound in their eye… it’s not as much embarrassment as a total reconsideration of lifestyle.
(Well, not that kind of reconsideration)
But before you think that I need help, remember that I am first and foremost a complete and total asshole. So most of the time in the hospital, I was telling the nurse what great work he was doing, how much an emergency room must suck, how handling stupid people like me must be the worst. We became great friends. When you pee in a bag for someone and they tell you that you can’t leave the hospital until you’re sober, an unbreakable bond is formed.
So, I drank moderately, enjoyed myself (but not too much) and never embarrassed myself again.
4) Giving a Trader Joe’s Wine Store Cashier My Number
Let’s skip forward to the beginning of this year, at another gallery night, where I obviously have learned nothing in the past 4 years. Except, this time, we can actually buy cheap wine. But instead of calling it a night after we get smashed among the local art, for some reason we end up at Trader Joe’s Wine store purchasing a $10 box of poison they like to call their 3 liters of boxed wine. It’s actually the worst thing you’ll ever drink.
I feel humiliation just looking at the box.
I’m pretty sure the Trader Joes cashier training system just gives them Xanax and white-people conversation starters. I mean, can you think of any other place you’ve said a sentence longer than “cash back” at checkout? And for some reason, I got it into my head that I was flirting with this cashier. And flirting for me is making fun of someone and them semi-reciprocating (i.e. his nametag said Lindsey and I told him I didn’t believe that was his real name). So I gave him my number.
And this bit of sadness has been sitting on my phone ever since. Sorry Lindsey.
5) Puking in the Middle of a Bar
I’m not going to tell you exactly how recent this was, except that it inspired me to write this post. I’m really hoping that after I put all these down and give myself more time to reflect, I realize that I am truly a horrible person and don’t deserve to ever drink again.
And guys, I wasn’t even drunk. It’s just… Superman has Kryptonite, and I have Evan Williams. And Kryptonite doesn’t even automatically make Superman vomit. But after a couple drinks at home, it only seemed logical to have a shot and a beer for $5 at a nearby bar. Immediately upon taking the shot and starting to chug a bud light lime, bad things were happening.
“Where’s the bathroom?”
And then it all just projected out on my arms and shoes.
“Ew!” some girl next to me screamed, very appropriately. Because who the fuck just throws up in the middle of a bar. (I do).
On my way home, I tore pages out my moleskine journal and wiped the vomit off my arms. (That actually happened. I’m the worst. Stop being my friend.) And then I had forgotten my keys so I had to call my roommates to come home. Because for some reason, I thought they stayed at the bar where I had shamed us all.
But it’s ok because as I was taking a shower, I realized that drunken embarrassment has no more power over me. I have done too many terrible things. I’m actually lucky I’m still alive and still have friends.
But the real moral of the story is really that at least I stopped making this face: