Freak Out
March 7, 2007 - 11:21pm
Overall, I had a really good birthday. I got literarily dozens of calls, text messages, and emails wishing me well. I got several “Happy Birthday” posts on my Facebook wall, even though I don't publish my birthday on Facebook. I couldn't get any work done, but at least I felt loved.
I put in my contacts, put on makeup and a nice shirt, and went to a birthday dinner with Emily, Melissa and Greg. Then we slowly made our way to Barcode.
And lo, this is where the trouble started.
Thanks to my generous friends, I consumed five drinks, including several shots, within the hour. By eleven o'clock the number was at about ten. After that I stopped keeping count.
The thing is, I wasn't trashed. I was drunk, I'll admit, making me more chatty, more bouncey, and a little dumber than usual, but I wasn't falling over. I remember most of the evening pretty clearly. Until about half past one am.
Then, in my memory, there is nothing. Nothing at all until Stephanie grabbed me and pulled me over to her car, which was parked across the street. (That was about half past two. I think).I remember getting out of the car, waving goodbye, and walking into my building. I don't even remember making it to my apartment door.
Next thing I know, it's mid-morning, and I'm naked, cold, and still drunk.
Yesterday I got the idea that I should take a picture of myself everytime I went to the ladies room at Barcode. Sort of like a drunken diary of progression. I thought it would be funny, and would give me something to write about.
But then, one thing lead to another, and between schmoozing with everybody that showed up and slamming down shot after shot, I mostly forgot about it, and only managed to get one picture, at about 11:30:
Well, that's what I thought, anyway.
I took a look at the photos on my camera this afternoon, wondering if I went on a CB-style drunken rampage of camera flashes in everyone's face, and found instead something that makes me uneasy.
Two photos OF ME that I don't remember taking. At all. The first is at two am. The second is at 2:40; I'm assuming I snapped it right after I drunkenly stumbled into my apartment.
I wouldn't have thought it would creep me out as much as it does. It's the same feeling you might get if someone photoshopped you into a scene that you know didn't happen. Except it did happen, it's just not represented anywhere in my memory. Even though they are dated and time-stamped.
Now, post birthday, I'm going to have to go through the tedious process of putting the end of my night back together; this basically involves hearing humilating stories about yourself as your friends sit back and laugh. I almost wish that I'd never have to hear about that lost hour, but it's probably better for people to be laughing in your face than behind your back.
I'll tell you one thing though: we're not doing this again next year.
