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One of the most vivid memories of my life is vomiting in my friend’s bathroom at 4am and realizing I had to clean it up. I was dizzy, I was nauseous, and I was unambiguously hammered.

I would like to clarify that this isn't the sort of decision I would regularly make. If asked to hypothetically get as smashed as I did then I'd decline. I'm pretty responsible with that type of stuff, it's not something to fuck with. However when my two friends and I decided to do it, I wasn't in the best state of mind. It was at one of my closest friend's houses, we can call him Kamau. I was talking to him about it recently and he was surprised when I said that one of my biggest reasonings then for even drinking that much was "I'm so sad right now, fuck it." And my other friend that night, who we can call Paul, even praised me for downing two bottles of wine and how metal it was. I gave him a pretty hard stare after that.


Kamau's Mom had received a full crate of wine from work for various reasons, and just had it in her garage. So we had pretty easy access to a near limitless amount of the stuff, because she was also asleep. We probably started drinking at around 1am, and I have to say, drinking with your friends is pretty fun, even if that cheap shit tasted like grape scented paint thinner. At around 3am I graduated from "sophisticatedly" pouring it into a glass to just drinking straight from the bottle. I had downed a full one at which point my friends pointed out that another one might be a bad idea. But I was drunk, and I was sad, and I was having fun. If they thought they could tell me when to stop then I'd have another thing coming for them, I'd get through another full bottle, no matter the protest.

My everything felt like a bobble-head in a washing machine, and my brain thought it still had sense in it, which it didn't. Kamau tells me that I get very emotional while drunk, which I say was just being sad, but he also says I got fun, and I can agree with that. It felt like an endless roller coaster ride with my friends where each attempt at not falling on our asses was another hilarious adventure. There were no more woes or sadness other than a couple drunken spurts here and there. There was only hilarity.

Soon enough though I had to hurl, and Kamau had put out a little plastic bag which I have to say was a pretty small target for a bobbing drunkard. But later he thanked me for not getting upchuck on his floor, so I must've succeeded in that department. After that first bout of nausea I went to finishing my final bottle, against their protests. I won, their stupid warnings meant nothing in the face of pure determination and stupidity, I was invincible. Until, of course, I realized that even drunken folk heroes need to take pretty long barf breaks.

In my stupor I'm sure it took at least five minutes for me to reach the bathroom less than four feet from his door. It was an odyssey, one that I did not have time to embark upon. I clawed my hands upon the knob out of his room and was reprimanded for being too loud. So I set to trying to open the knob as quietly as I can, each try being able to twist it another few degrees more than the last. I crawled across the short hallway, it was the quickest way to go without risking standing, and the second the door to the bathroom was upon I threw up on the floor, the toilet was so close. Soon enough I collected myself and finished throwing the rest of my stomach contents into the toilet, at which point I saw that the floor was also covered in barf. Perfect.

I looked around the bathroom for what felt like a good ten minutes, trying not to make any noise or knock anything over while only half being able to tell my legs what to do. Eventually I resigned to crawling around and to clean it up with his bathroom mat. He had no towels or toilet paper, that there is a travesty. Another fifteen minutes went by and soon enough I couldn't feel or spot anymore of the orange bile on the floor, it definitely smelled terrible, but visual evidence was all but gone save for the mat, which I handed to him in his room.

Soon enough we realized it was about 5am and that we should go to sleep. Me and Kamau went on his bed, and Paul took the floor. I was certainly surprised when he started it, but me and Kamau made out, quite a bit.

In the morning I departed quickly, and expunged all thoughts from my mind until I got home. Paul and I had taken an uber, it was a silent and somber ride, he tried to bring up what happened, but I refused to get into it with him. I thought about May, and I thought about why I got drunk in the first place. She never tried to help me get over being sad, I tried to talk to her about it time and time again. Each time she brushed me off, saw it as nothing more than me being melodramatic. When I tried to talk to her about things she did that made me anxious or just generally scared she would get defensive. I felt very alone, and soon enough I felt very justified. Yet still, as close I came to making the breakthrough that she was the source of all this, I was still naive. I had to tell her what happened. How would she react to this? She didn’t care.

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