One of these days I'm going to learn that my personality + alcohol don't mix in a group of more than one person (myself). While becoming an alcoholic usually means you're by yourself, I'm sure more than most of the people I have been around will agree that it's something I should do more often because of my potential behavior. I don't warn new friends, dates, or anyone else for that matter, because it's just something that simply happens.
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
Since the power of t3h internetz is so awesome, it was during this short alcoholic period of my life that I could meet and hang out with new people all the time (through Yelp events)--thus ensuring that yes, I could afford to lose some future friends, potential soul mates, etc. Just call me the Queen of Good Ideas. And Bad Sarcasm.
Anyways, onto where I make myself look like a complete ass.
The way I met my ex was through a certain website. No, it's not a dating website, but for all the people that hook up through it, may as well should be. They were holding a charity event, and being the materialistic consumer-whore Generation X has raised, I decided on going with someone who had a motorcycle. Surprisingly enough, he said that he would pay for my ticket, and that we would go to dinner before hand--make it feel like prom really happened (I never went to mine). Throughout the month and a half that would tranverse before the event actually took place, I would regale my friends with just how creepy his picture was, and that I should back out at the last minute, and that I'm probably going to end up as a severed head in his fridge.
Per usual, I was late in showing up at his doorstep. Most the tardiness came from a lack of caring whether or not we even got to the event at all (hell, I didn't pay for anything), and the other part was just me too scared to think about the prospect of being "shown" his private knife collection (which he has...but not for that). Unfortunately for me, the moment I stepped out of the cab and he opened the door to his apartment complex...I fell instantly in lust for this man. Standing in a Hugo Boss black suit with a tie and dress shoes, looking so sharp and handsome that I stood completely dumbfounded in the doorway. My jaw just hung there like...well, like gravity is a bitch and this is really awkward.
Since we were riding on a motorcycle across, of all things dangerous, the Bay Bridge, we limited ourselves to one glass of wine during our very lengthy dinner. During our meal, I picked up right where I left off on the awkward (1. Getting on the motorcycle and saying, "Oh yeah, I love motorcycles, used to have my ex f**k me with his helmet on." Did I need to say that? No). Also, look--just because a guy is good looking, doesn't mean he's gay. Believe me, I tried convincing him he was for two hours during dinner (awkward moment #2).
When we arrived at the event itself, I was not only hot and sweaty from wearing the required garments and carrying all our stuff to put down somewhere, but someone I had just stopped seeing was there as well (awkward moment #3--although he continues to deny to this day that we were seeing each other, only because apparently it doesn't count if we didn't engage in any relations). In an effort to create more tension, I did what any normal petty 21 year old would do--I flirted with my date. A lot. So much so that by the end of the evening, I was sober and feeling very...nervous. Just nervous in general--about saying the wrong thing, about stepping on his feet during a dance, or hell, even just nervous about being on the back of the bike. Either way, by the time we got back to the apartment, I was ready to drink.
Do you know what a bad idea is? To combine anxiety and liquor. I would know--the ex and I dated for a few months, and the feeling never subsided until it was over. Not only did this anxiety prevent me from eating too much, but it also prevented my body from actually absorbing any nutritional content to be used for later in soaking up the liquid effervescent served later on that evening.
He handed me a glass of champagne. I downed it. He handed me the second one. I downed it.
Then I woke up, it was 8am and I was just wearing my underwear.
WHAT. THE. FUCK.
This is what supposedly happened when I blacked out (for the first time in my life):
I passed out on his bed, because that's what alcohol does to me. Waking up at 3am to use the bathroom downstairs, as I was trying to get up I accidentally pulled myself up by a very lightweighted storage shelf that looks similar to this. Needless to say, it came crashing down, along with everything on it (including a glass candle holder that shattered into a million pieces).
As he came rushing downstairs after being jerked from his sleep, he saw as I was walking very slowly, with my hands up to my mouth and eyes wider than ever.
"Are you okay??"
Without responding, I slumped up against the wall (it was a narrow hallway), and slid past him as if he couldn't see me. Apparently, being drunk also means I act like a 4 year old. When I made it back into bed, he tried putting pajamas on me, but I absolutely refused (once again, acting like a 4 year old). Also, we had a hardcore make out session.
I don't remember any of this.
Waking up the next morning, I sat up in bed and had no idea where my clothes went. How did I get here!? What the hell happened last night!? Did we do anything!? No, thank goodness.
Because I'm classy like that.
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net