Things were different the first time around. I was younger, more patient, and better practiced in the ways of alcoholism. The bar on campus where I earned tuition closed early and we were always out of there by one and at the bar down the street by ten after; an hour and twenty minutes to take as many shots and chug as many beers as we could swallow. Even on weekdays when I closed by myself, I’d find someone to party with. If they were hot I might stumble home with them. Even if they weren’t . . . well sometimes tequila makes it easier to overlook a butterface or way too much gut. The next morning I would crawl out of bed, sometimes mine, sometimes someone else’s, drag myself to class, then work, and do it all over again. It was awesome. Probably one of the best times of my life! But it’s over now.
No, that’s not true. It’s been over for a while. I haven’t drank like that in years but sometimes I still forget and think that I can party like old times.
One shot. Two shots. Three shots. Four. God knows how many more.
It was a slow night. Really slow. Painfully slow. So slow that somehow I found myself down the street spending more than I made on the opposite side of the bar as Cameltoe Joe. I can’t stand Cameltoe Joe. I didn’t want to give him any of my money but tip karma is a bitch so I threw him down a couple extra dollars for every shot.
That’s the last thing I remember. Until now: stumbling out of bed in the dark (not my bed, not my dark) and down an unfamiliar hallway in search of a wash room. The first door is just a closet. The second opens to snores better suited to a hibernating bear than a human. The third one’s a charm.
I drop my pants and plop down on the toilet. Drunk piss is always such a relief. But something doesn’t feel quite right. I frown, wobble on the seat a bit as I try to stand, and bend over to pull my pants back up.
I blink. Hard. My vision is blurry. Standing still takes effort and I sway on my feet as I stare in disbelief at my pelvis.
I forgot I was wearing underwear.
I forgot I was wearing underwear and I just pissed right through it. Fuck fuck fuck fuck! My head swirls and my thoughts race. My heart pounds. What the fuck do I do?
What can I do? I trip out of my pants and yank the wet drawers down, wishing I could just leave. But I am way too drunk to drive. So I’ll just throw them out right? Except . . . where is the waste basket? A frantic search of the room─behind the toilet, under the sink, even in the shower─reveals nothing; no trash can, no plastic grocery bag substitute, nothing. That’s how I find myself retracing my steps back down the hallway, pissy panties in hand, when a door creek open and a sliver of light starts in front of me.