After more than three weeks in my new city, I thought I'd done pretty well... at least until last night. I had a plan last night. I hung out with my downstairs neighbour-cum-roommate Miranda and had a (couple)glass(es) of wine. Then I was going to bring housewarming soup to a fleeting friend who lives but three blocks away. Then I would decide whether I'd finish the night at the Drake, or if I'd join Miranda at this Media Art Jam thing at a warehouse in the Distillery District. Turns out a bottle of Jose Cuervo finished me off instead.
Going to a party where you only know one person is always iffy, but I've learned to handle this type of situation like a champ. Obviously, the key is alcohol. Had I stuck to my original plan of sticking to my tetra pak, I would probably have awoken with not only a significantly less horrible hangover headache but also some of my dignity. Even after brushing my teeth four or five times, I cannot seem to scrape the night from my tongue or my memory.
Don't get me wrong, the party was great. The crowd was.. interesting.. with most of the guests probably being over ten years my senior. This can go one of two ways. You can either end up being labeled the lone 19 year-old (which is not a good look, mind you) early on in the evening or they can find you endearing and fun.. Like the party favor the party ends up revolving around. Thankfully (?) last night it was the latter. I made some fantastic new friends, but I made the mistake of letting several men latch onto me for the last couple hours of the party. I made the even bigger mistake of letting one 'walk me home'. I made the gargantuan mistake of letting one (the same one) come inside. If I had known more good looking men here, my condition would've made for a fantastic drunk dial. I was pleasantly 'out to sea', my inhibitions were lowered... Unfortunately, so was my judgement.
Thankfully, in this day and age (or this day at my age?), you can skip the niceties of spending the night without sounding like a total and complete ass. This was my move back home. Why try for an uncomfortable, half-assed attempt at sleep at opposite sides of the bed with someone you just had mediocre sex with that you probably (definitely) could have done without and probably (definitely) won't see again, when you can pop a couple gravol (or lorazepam, depending on how mediocre it was), have a glass of water and sleep in your own bed? Hey, I just really hate morning-after small talk.
Granted, when someone I actually like gets up & goes home after the deed, I do feel slightly hurt and sometimes a little resentful. But that's less interesting to blog about.
Six months ago, I wouldn't have given last night's hiccup a fleeting thought the day after, or even the hour after. Especially since we 'technically' never made it to sex before I kicked him out. Today I feel sick, tired, unsatisfied, and generally... bad. This may also have something to do with a game of drunk texting table tennis around 5am that I happened to lose. In more than one way.
Not only did I lose my new film camera last night, I also lost alot of respect for myself. I used to tell myself I was evolved. Just having fun. Not hurting anyone. I can't tell if I wish I still thought that way or not. I'm going to be paying for last night for awhile. Some of the residual effects of the half bottle of Jose I consumed will wear off by nightfall with a path cleared directly from my bed to my bathroom but unfortunately there's still no miracle cure-all for the other effects of tequila that can't be thrown up.
Today is the reason breakfast at the Nook was invented. Fuck.
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