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Of Alcohol and Bums
Wesnesday. 7.21.04 9:34 am
I have a sore bum.

Let me explain. A coupla nights ago, I was at a little drinking session at a friend’s place. I should point out beforehand that I never drink. Not excessively anyway. Apart from that one time I ended up puking twice and nearly passed out in a corridor. But that was a whole year ago.

Anyhoo, back to the drinking session. I knew my limits. So I stuck to little paper cups of vodka-soda mix. One after another, in rapid succession. It was not long before I finally came to realize something. I am absolutely pathetic with alcohol. Suddenly, I was surrounded by best friends. The only thing stopping me from throwing my arms around each and every one of them and laying on them a sloppy wet one was the fear of spilling my drink. Everything said that night made such sense. It was as if the secrets of the universe had been let loose upon our wee minds. I’ve since forgotten what they were, but I hazily remember vague remarks about Raphael Santi, Grantz, and irate neighbours.

And so the night wore on. A group of us sat in a circle on the road, singing along merrily to someone’s guitar. We sat there for a long time, interrupted only by the odd ‘excuse me, I’ve gotta go throw up’. Some people came by – we thought they wanted to join us in our deep discussion of the merits of the road as a bed, but no, they were only morning joggers peering at us with thinly veiled suspicion.

When we finally trooped off to bed, I was worried that I’d oversleep and miss picking my kid sisters up from school at three. Shouldn’t have bothered. I woke up at nine thirty and couldn’t get back to sleep again. Not because I wanted to get an early start on the road, but because I spent the next three hours with my head in the toilet bowl, hurling my guts out at every fifteen-minute interval. I puked till there was nothing left to puke out. And then I puked some more. And yet some more. My stomach felt like a wrung-out dishcloth. I hurled so much, I could feel abs starting to develop.

I finally admitted defeat at noon and had a friend drive me to the doctor’s, where I threw up another two times. He took one look at my tongue and pronounced me dehydrated. Woohoo. That didn’t sound too bad. I told him to give me some pills and I’d be on my merry way. Silly billy, he said. How did I think I’d keep the pills down long enough for them to work? No worries, he had just the thing. One jab and my face would finally have some time off from the inside of the throne. A jab? As in a needle stuck in my fragile flesh? Not on your life, mister. I was up and running in two shakes of a lamb’s tail. But before I could reach the door, I stopped short, the sudden motion upsetting my already rolling stomach. Big mistake, he mistook my abrupt halt for surrender and led (dragged) me over to his sickbed thing.

Fine. If I was gonna go through the ordeal, I’d at least do it with my dignity intact. I held my breath and rolled my sleeve up. At which point he gave me an odd look and shook his head.

Dr Evil: I need you to lie down.
Slightly Terrified Me: Why? Will that help?
Dr Evil: Not really, no. But I’ll be administering the jab on your tushie.
Definitely Terrified Me: *Whimpers*
Fraulein Nurse: Listen to the doctor, dear. *Forces me down*
Very Terrified Me: *Whimpers*
Dr Evil: *Jabs*
In Agony Me: *Howls*
Dr Evil: There you go. Run along now, you lil’ minx.
Still In Agony Me: I’m never drinking again.

Not till the next alcohol session, at any rate.

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