I think it is a combination of sheer shamelessness and the need for attention which has made me so proud of the never-ending fall-out from any party I have ever been to. I never tire of hearing stories about my actions after losing consciousness and/or memory at parties. Here’s a quick round up from a party last Wednesday, of things I shouldn’t have done; but did anyway:
Threw a glass of red wine over my boss. He was wearing his favourite shirt. RED WINE. The walls were formerly whitewashed. RED WINE. My glass, now empty, essentially gets me caught red-handed.
Ran around naked. This I can only guess at, since I woke up wearing a puked-on cardi, when previously I was wearing a puked-on t-shirt and a puked-on cardi. My t-shirt, I later discovered, was in a pile of puke in the corridor. I also puked on my jeans.
Choked on my own vomit. One of the girls from work informed me that she had to hold me up while I threw up all over myself. The phrase she used was “helped you spew”, which I thought was cute.
Flashed people because they asked me to. Just like when I was two years old. Some things never change.
Performed oral sex on my boss. There was a video of this happening. Thankfully – contrary to what said video may suggest – I know that we were both fully clothed and it only looked like a sex act. Needless to say, the video has been disseminated quite widely at work. Equally needless to say, I am quite happy to have people watch the video, as long as they are rightly disgusted and ask follow-up questions. What is it with me and negative attention!?
Created a major fire hazard by passing out in a hallway. Yup.
Speaking of work – I genuinely feel hatred for some of my customers. Some, on the basis that they are stuck up millionaire wankers, some on the basis that they drink too much and – hypocritically of me – I disagree with their staggering drinking habits. However, last week, one such regular (he is in both the drinks-too-much and has-more-money-than-common-sense categories) put the rest to shame. I noticed that he was wearing a thong. Yes, bluntly, the man was wearing a thong. I am still disgusted by the sight. The man was wearing a thong. The man was wearing a thong, at my bar! The man was wearing a thong! I dropped the screw in the tuna! I dropped the screw in the tuna!!
I was wandering aimlessly around uni yesterday, dressed as some sort of indie-goth-transvestite (I was listening to Radio One while I got dressed) when I SAW him! THONG MAN! IN MY UNI!! Nothing is sacred anymore. He looked at me. With his eyes. His THONG eyes. All I could see around me were thongs. Big, black thongs; worn by a grown, unattractive man. I think I had a mild panic attack. I stopped in the middle of the corridor. Tried to “Act Natural”… THONG!!! Oh God, Dear Lord in Heaven, it was too much. It was too THONG! I skulked slowly, distracting my eyes from his beer belly and peering, thong-like eyes, nearly tripping up over my high heeled boots and paint-on jeans (not a good combination for running in, so running away was not an option at this point). Finally, he left, with other people he was inexplicably with in a board room IN MY UNI.
I have been genuinely disturbed by this man. Lastnight, he was even in my dream,
standing in places I frequent where he should absolutely, definitely not have been. Then today, I went into work and he had upped the ante, so to speak. Or dropped the thong to be literal about it: his trousers slipped down as he sat on one of the high bar-stools – revealing that Thong-man had decided to go commando!!!
No wonder I drink.