Driving the toilet seat
◊ Notes I wrote at work the day after a party this weekend. I have recovered, thanks to Dean's chicken soup and patience, and I have decided that I can either try to control my drinking at parties or just never, ever drink tequila again.
I can't shake my childhood Catholic instruction, hard as I try, so I am convinced I have been paying for my sins. But did it have to be on the kinds of terms you see in the fine print of those pre-approved credit card applications you get in the mail?
It's been a real struggle to maintain my pride since the party. I never puke, especially because of alcohol -- not until recently, anyway -- so I'm been telling everyone about how I had to pick mushrooms out of the load of laundry containing the towel used as a puke mop, and how I found more mushrooms in the lint trap of the dryer. After that, they no longer want to dwell on the topic. Except Luke, who is a sick bastard that thrives on the pain of others and probably enough of a science geek to appreciate the awe incurred by holding something in your hand that used to be in your digestive tract.
And the twelve-year "no puking" streak comes to a dramatic, messy close.
I couldn't stop. I broke every personal rule -- puked loud, missed the toilet (Missed? Someone was using it at the time, so I'm glad I missed) and puked with an audience.
Now I'm staggering around work, half dead and terrified that every hiccup is going to have a Technicolor follow-through. Everyone around me is speaking some weird language that involves lots of mumbling. It's definitely not English, because I speak English and I can't seem to figure out what these people want from me.
I had to drive to work and I was fully convinced I was going to crash into an old person or a baby carriage like I've been threatening to all these years. I made it, probably due to the courtesy and sharp reflexes of the drivers around me.
I know I got into trouble last night for events that occurred at the party and that I will have to deal with that, but it is hard for me to feel afraid yet. Fear has little effect on the severely hung over. You don't care if someone threatens your job, your sanity or your belongings because the hangover is already kicking your ass, banging your mom, calling your kid brother a retard to make him cry and sacrificing your pets to Satan. As for the threat of injury -- who cares? The best defense you have is looking feeble and maybe puking. If they kill you, they'll make the headache go away.
(Later)
I'm feeling a little better -- lots of water and a little food -- so I'm almost feeling human. Not enough that I want to try anything from the party again, but enough to want to apologize to anyone that crosses my path, whether I embarrassed myself in front of them or not.
I don't know how Bukowski did it.