Okay okay, it may be that my boyfriend is busy and my friends/roomies are out for the night and I am utterly at a loss of what to do. I have watched Boogie Nights, painted my nails, played video games, watched half of So I Married An Axe Murderer and even in a last ditch attempt at entertainment I washed the dishes. So here I am, sitting shamefully in my sweats looking for some sort of confirmation in a blog I kind of forgot about for a while.
So feel free to judge me you assholes. I know you are, but fine, a question must arise here...why are you sitting here reading my pathetic blog anyways? Why arnt YOU out doing something? Oh yeah, its because you live an even sadder existence then I.
Wow, if I hadn't lost all my fan base after my hiatus, by now it must have dwindled to my mom and the old ladies who stumble across these sites in their attempts to find oxygen tanks online.
But I am done insulting you to make my sad existence seem better. I do in fact have a story to tell. And it is one I promised I would never re-live. But as it has its own comedic value to it; and realistically I can't NOT tell a story about Bret Michaels on this blog (he is my life idol after all).
Now this story has a lot of greatness packed into one tiny night. And I can't promise that it will hold the same feeling as it did while it was happening. But to me this night was as legendary as the breakfast that followed it the next morning.
Now first I'm going to remind you who Bret Michaels is. Lead singer of Poison. Oh you don't know who Poison is? Perhaps you should look up the song "Every Rose Has It's Thorn" and then carefully study this picture.
Oh yeah, you know who I'm talking about. Now, this story all starts with a good friend of mine throwing a "trashy rockstar party". Not just a "Rockstar party" but a "TRASHY rockstar party". Therefore I had only one option to dress up as...my dear, sweet Bret Michaels.He was a clear choice because no guy who has a show called Rock Of Love in which the women are forced to kiss each other, strip, get naked and cat fight could possibly be anything other than a trashy rockstar.
So I loaded on more eyeliner then I have ever worn in my life, got my friend to scribble on a snake/heart/sword tattoo and pulled on my skeeziest wifebeater/ripped jeans/ripped flannel vest combo and headed out with cider in hand. It was a long bus ride down, and armed with Courtney Love, Kurt Cobain and a local Lust Boy we looked like motely crew of awkward teens in the early 90's. Once we reached the party it was an instant feeling of awesomeness.
Now, it was at this point I should've taken my own learning experiences (Read: Episode 5) and used that to gauge my ability to consume copious amounts of alcohol. But instead I went on empty stomach hoping to get the best bang for my buck and prayed to the god of debauchery to love and protect me that night.
The evening was going awesome. We drank cider till we were tipsy and danced like it was 1998. I think I had reached a comfortable drunkeness. I was fooling myself into believing that I could pull off a night of puke free bliss. But then came the decision that turned my night from being an "Amber" night to a "Bret" night. I decided to switch drinks with my friend, who was mixing fireball with coke, and lets just say he pours with a heavy hand.
Alright I was doing okay. Feeling a bit weird (I think I may have laid down for a minute..passed out, got back up and started dancing again). Okay, still a good night. Now kiddies: when you reach this point of drunk...walk away. Pack it in and call it a night. DO NOT ACCEPT SHOTS OF VODKA AT THIS POINT.
Yup..I did it. I pounded some shots of Vodka and kept partying. Then you get that feeling. You know the one. That feeling rising in your drunken stomach that makes all senses freeze and everything becomes a desperate need for a toilet to stick your head in. Yup.
So in the least drunken voice I could muster I turned to my roommate and whispered "I need to vomit". She then had my head over a toilet so fast it was probably recorded as a world record. At this point I once again lost consciousness for about a few minutes. I somehow then ended up in my friends bed (who was throwing the party) and woke up to vomiting into a plastic bowl/pail thing. And at this point I started telling my roommate witty jokes (because I am at my comedic best when I'm so hammG'ed I am throwing up).
After this went on for hours (okay probably 5 minutes) I passed out again. Then I re-awoke to my phone buzzing beside me. It turns out my roommate and her boyfriend had locked themselves in my friends scary/ creepy attic closet and couldn't get out. Their only saviour was me. Yeah....I had at this point convinced myself I couldn't move my legs. The attic thing was literally 2 steps away from.
So what does one do? I phoned my other roommate (who was downstairs) and begged her to save our friends from their certain death inside the closet. After witnessing their safe return to the outside I promptly passed out. I then awoke the next morning to being spooned by my friends (their was three of us in the bed). It was horrifying and I might admit a little awesome.
Now my story gets awesome here. I had promised to meet a guy for brunch the next day. Never again. I rallied my friends for brunch and we fumbled out of the house smelling of vomit and self-loathing. We rode the bus in stricken silence. We rolled into the brunch place, they gave us that "look" one gets when they show up anywhere smelling of alcohol and day-old vomit. Oh and we were all wearing the clothes from the night before. Yeah, we looked like rockstars. Trashy ones at that.
Yeah we roll it classy like that. The best part of brunch was that the guy I was meeting showed up smelling of clean and looked great. I think he felt kind of ashamed for sitting with us. Oh and the great thing about being sick from drinking? You wake up so hungry that even greasy eggs and spinach on a buttered bagel becomes the greatest breakfast of your life.
Bret Michaels would've been so proud.
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