Drunk Cleanup

“To wish to be well is a part of becoming well.” – Seneca

Some days the sun is too bright, the alarm is too loud, and the distance between me and Morning Joe is too great. Yet, these are the symptoms of a fun evening, many of the details of which are foggy due to booze-induced amnesia. If you’ve ever gone day-drinking, you know what I’m referring to, especially if it turned into night-drinking.

Your intentions going in are pure:

  • I’ll pace myself.
  • I’ll mix in an ice-water between drinks.
  • I’ll be sure to eat something.
  • No tequila.
  • No shots. Ok, maybe one shot, but that’s the limit. Nothing fruity, and I’m not dropping anything into a beer.
  • I’ll slow down those final few hours and make sure I get home safely and to bed early.
  • I’m not texting, calling, or hooking up with any exes.
  • No late-night greasy Mexican food.
  • I’m not spending more than fifty dollars.
  • I won’t leave my credit card at any bars.

The next morning, as you unload the final remnants of Jack from your bladder, you stare forward trying to remember what happened, hoping you can’t recall the cringe-worthy parts.

“I’m not drinking again … ever–well, at least not for the rest of this week.”

“Where did I park?”

“Why are there tater tots in my pocket, and are they still good?”

“Did I really pee in a planter?”

“Where are my shoes?”

“Did Connie really throw up in her husband’s beer?”

Then, you begin your reconnaissance mission, which usually starts with your wallet or purse.

“Thank god, my debit card is here. Naturally, there’s no cash. What is this pill?”

“Whose business card is this? Alex. Hm. That could be a boy or a girl. To the shredder, just to be safe.”

“Whose panties are these? What size are they? Oh, no.”

“Did I eat the other half of this burrito?”

“Where are my keys?”

Next, you reluctantly pick up your phone. The battery is dead, no doubt. You plug it in, wait for the unlock slider to appear, then wince as you check text messages, photos taken, and calls placed.

“I don’t recognize this number. Where is area code 612? Fuck, I dialed it four times after midnight.”

“Why did Jason send me a picture of his dog’s ass?”

“When did I install this Man-on-Man app?”

“My ex texted ‘OMFG.’ This isn’t good.”

“Why was I searching for baba ganoush recipes?”

Then you sign onto Facebook and look for clues and evidence.

“Why did I check in at a women’s clinic?”

“I’m tagged in this picture, but I don’t see … oh, that must be me lying on the floor. Why am I wearing pumps? Pink is so not my color.”

“I posted a status update with three misspellings and an oddly-placed tilde.”

“Why is Hugh Janus friending me?”

“Here’s a karaoke photo of me and a crackhead-looking dude singing ‘Baby Love.'”

It’s green tea til further notice.

About the author

Author of humorous essays about relationships and lifestyles.

Comments

  1. Many moons ago, I walked home from an evening’s adventure such as above. When I arrived home, I put my hand in my black trenchcoat pocket to discover my bra inside. To this day, I have no clue as to how it got there. A short 20-ish years has gone by, and still I would like to know how much fun I really did have. Damn.

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

Secured By miniOrange