I attended a small party the other night.
We played a drinking game called "I Never," in which one person says, for example, "I've never had a threesome," and all those who HAVE had threesomes have to drink. If nobody in the room has ever had a threesome, the person who presented the statement has to drink.
Being three years older than my fellow party-goers, and having had some incredibly fucked-up experiences (see archives), I was definitely at a disadvantage. Realizing this from the start, I made myself a REALLY nasty drink (a martini that tasted like nail-polish remover), and made sure to take VERY small sips. It appears that I've done everything else under the sun, mes amis -- but I've NEVER thrown up from drinking, and I wasn't about to start that night.
By midnight, the "hostess" of our party (ie, the girl whose room we were in) was declaring her lust for me thusly: "I don't want to have sex with YOU! I want to have sex with HELENA!" Thirty seconds later, she was in the bathroom, revisiting her dinner, and probably yesterday's dinner too... So, while she was potentially trashed enough to put some moves on me, there wasn't a chance in hell I was going near a thrower-up, and there wasn't a chance in hell she was straying too far from the porcelein god.
Vomiting filled the hazy winter night. Vomiting filled starry skies with echoes of grossness. Vomiting overshadowed the mutters of concern from the rest of the people in the hall, and eventually, the giggling from the rest of the hall.
Helena lay on the bed, eyes fixated on some paper cranes hanging from the ceiling, her thumbs stuffed into her ears, explaining the difference between solipsism and existentialism to the paper cranes. Helena isn't entirely sure she KNOWS the difference, at least not well enough to write a well-thought-out paper about it. But Helena didn't want to hear the gross noises. Nor did she want to think about the party's hostess potentially having a thing for her... Lust is never a good thing to think about when you're a little buzzed. Particularly not when folks are vomiting. So Helena talked to paper cranes for about an hour. Helena likes cranes.
Helena most certainly doesn't deserve the kudos of those who spent their evening holding heads over the toilet and whispering, "it'll be okay, you'll feel better in the morning," but the next morning, Helena, who was neither the life of the party, nor the saviour, was the MEMORY of the party. But Helena neglected to remind anybody that she appeared very fuckable the other night. If anybody remembers, they're not talking: Helena's own private secret. Heh!
Viva la paper crane...
~Helena*