Lets Call This One "And I'm a Fucking Idiot"

Dear Mom, You jinxed me. [Now stop reading here.]

Over gchat this weekend my mom told me to "maintain my coolness", (read: not blackout) always one to prove people wrong, I decided to drink what appeared to be an entire bottle of vodka and proceed to lose my dignity not only on the floor but also in the kitchen sink. Then vehemently deny it because I honestly thought: That's not me. I have never in all of my drunken years upchucked in a place I'm not suppose to. (Except for maybe that one time a little bit on my now ex-boyfriend. But we dated for 2 years after that. Oh, and that other time, on the metro - but what choice did I have?) And here I go and do it at the house of relative strangers (only friends of friends, really) where the guy I went on a date with on Thursday lives.

I broke Stacy and I's first rule of drinking. I was smart when I was 18...26 year old me should listen.

To be fair, the date appeared only to happen because he thought I was asking him. So, I really have no clue. Decidedly, tipsy me is fantastic, sober me is okay, and drunk be is unlovable...and really loves "chicken". Noted. Duly.

In the vein of full disclosure, the "date" was okay. We had actually chatted and texted for the prior week, which were enjoyable. The "date" was a dinner with little to no thought that was bought for me "because you're letting me crash at your place". ...First, sir, you asked me, so, um, well, you pay. Then I womped him at Trivial Pursuit and poker. I'm a cheap date. Other than that, nothing to report really.

Earlier in the week his roommate who I had met when I met him at karaoke a few weeks prior had invited me to a house party that was suppose to be attended by many of my friends as well. So, as in, not socially awkward for me. Well, Saturday rolls around and we get 8 inches of snow. Well, that fucking Yes Year claimed it's first casualty - determined to fight cabin fever (which develops quickly for me now since Yes-ing everything means I'm never home), and committed in my "yes's" I drove 23 miles (and 80 minutes) to go. Second clue not to go, I'll leave you hanging with the first.

Anyway, I awkwardly arrive and as it turns out - and to my surprise - only ONE other person I know was there. (And he's good friends with the guys that live there.) Had I not feared for my life in driving back, I would have left. Uncomfortable. Drinking through an awkward situation? Or just too much of a love of playing drinking games? You decide. Either way, I ended up with no dignity, a tarnished reputation of judgment by the first impression of people that really don't know me but are friends with my friends, no memory of anything past 11pm and a hangover well into the evening.

Oh, then I tried to save face by asking if he wanted to meet up again. Not as a date, just, you know: Hi, I'm not normally an asshole. No dice. Evidently, in the end, my textual conversations were not enough to save my drunk ass and I got an "um, maybe some other time". That actually cracked me up. My poor little pride. Bruised. Sad little ego. I swear, that's not who I am and I'm a little unnerved to be judged, but lesson learned I suppose.

I'm not kidding when I say I think I'm done drinking. Bye vodka, it's been fun. But I'm breaking up with you.

(Hopefully this story with help you feel better when you do something just as dumb. Alcohol is sometimes evil.)