Cape Cod Tsunami

Underage, fake ID and up at the bar drinking Cape Cods. Mmm mmm, that sweetened cranberry juice sure can mask the flavour of those hefty helpings of vodka the friendly bartender was poring into my drinks. Within 45 minutes, I had downed 6 of them. I was at the drag queen dive we hung out in and when my friends arrived I enthusiastically announced that I was getting full. This slang for getting drunk wasn’t adequate to describe what was happening to me. I was on the brink of overflowing. With a sudden and swift drop, my merriment descended into slurs and blurs, then deeper still into zombiedom. A friend recounted how my eyes abruptly glazed over and my expression slakened. She accompanied me to the restroom and apparently I remained in the dirty, dive, toilet cubicle for an inordinately long time. God knows what I did in there, but it wasn’t vomiting. I saved that for outside the club. Projectile streams of red liquid gushing across the pavement. Only to be outdone by the rivulets of menstrual blood pouring down my legs and saturating my sheer, black tights. The last thing I can remember from the night is that same friend informing me about the state of my legs. I don’t care, was my reply. You will, was hers. Perhaps there is one skant snatch of recollection out of the blackness that followed. Me standing in front of my apartment door. But the copious vomiting, taxi drivers refusing to let me into their cabs, getting home, being home, these images were recreated by friend’s and my mom. One taxi driver eventually gave in with the strict orders that I sit on plastic and don’t dare vomit. I was escorted to my door, firmly nudged inside and my mom led me to my bed. Some hours later, I awoke to a stench. Pulling back my covers revealed shit spread down my thighs and around the sheet. The final expulsion. Stumbling through a clean up I hurried to the restaraunt I worked in to endure an 8 hour shift of a hang over. One of the waiters brough me two long, tall drinks of freshly squeezed orange juice, vodka free. Drink it down, he said, watching me until I had emptied both glasses. Vitamin C coursed gloriously through my system eliminating nausea and heaviness on its way. Sufficiently perked up, all that remained to endure were the accounts of my Cape Cod overdose.