Friday, June 29, 2012

NYPD Blues

I stiffly shifted awake to find myself lying on the ground atop two cushions that had been removed from the back of my white leather couch wearing only pink booty shorts and a black lace bra. I looked around my studio apartment quizzically for an explanation, but was immediately bombarded by a headache that felt like the after effects of putting a campfire out my face. Sadly, I wish I could say this sensation was new to me, but I quickly realized the culprit of my unease: sake.
Sake and I have a longstanding history of poor decisions followed by even poorer physical actions. My last bout with the devil's drink left me face-planted outside a club at a rookie 11:00PM (hence began the tradition of Face-Plant Fridays). I think it's safe to conclude that I rarely learn from my mistakes. In fact, I seem to repeat them with the eagerness of a 15-year-old boy whacking off to Playboy.

I slowly peeled my bare skin from the leather, found one friend in my bed, and another on the couch. Mystery of whom I went out with - solved. Unfortunately, the mystery of why I decided to sleep on the floor rather than double up in my bed is one that went unsolved (I'm considering contacting Robert Stack to report on it). As I began to stand, my entire body fought against the movement. I was hurting - everywhere.  I turned and squinted at the clock. Removing my contacts before bed was clearly the only responsible thing I had done. 7:15AM gleamed back at me. Shit - I was still drunk.

I stumbled to the mirror to assess the damage. The typical post night out look stared back at me - matted mascara, smudged eyeliner, and sex hair. However, despite my waking attire, I was (sadly) sure there had been no late night romp. Then, I noticed the not-so-typical knot shining on my forehead. Alarmed, I started feeling my body up and down for more protrusions. I was covered in fresh bruises - some places hadn't begun to darken yet, and I knew those would develop to be the ugliest.

Although my early morning panic had been silent, I heard my friends beginning to stir. I turned and looked at them, hoping they would be in just as much pain as I was. I needed someone else to be as bad off for once. Hungover as they were, they were seemingly unscathed and began to quickly pack up their things in the hope of making the next train. In the midst of their preparations, one turned to me, pointed at the floor to a crumpled piece of paper, and said, "I think that's your police report over there." I quickly smoothed the paper and read "Assault in the First Degree."


What had I gotten myself into? I started racking my brain hoping for some memory to present itself. Too bad I had a better chance of finding Jesus's face in one of my bruises. The last thing I remembered was screaming "Sake! Sake! Sake! BOMB!" with a group of like-minded individuals. How did the police become involved and how much will be missing from my already minuscule bank account to pay the inevitable fine?

"I can't believe that guy hit you last night."

Never did I think I would be happy to hear those words. I climbed into my bed, prepared to let it consume me for the rest of the day. Don't get me wrong, I was plenty concerned for myself and wanted to find out what had transpired the previous night, but sleeping off the poor decisions was top priority. I had just found out I didn't do anything illegal - the police wouldn't be looking for me, there would be no fine. The only logical next step was sleep. Sleep, then figure out the sequence of events that ended with me calling the police on Chris Brown's number one fan.


Days later, after hours of pitying myself as the victim, I eventually discovered the missing details from a friend that was most coherent that fateful night. Allegedly, around 3AM, after hours of aggressive consumption, I said something smart to a guy eating near me at a pizza place. He stiff-armed me, knocking me backward out of my chair. I sprang up and began flailing about hitting him. We made it outside and he gave me one last shove. I gracefully landed spread-eagle on the pavement and decided it was best I chat with 911.  I think I've finally learned my lesson - no more drunk eating.

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