Everything is wrong with me
Friday, May 14, 2004
Thursday Night Shit Show
I am so hungover right now in my ninety-five degree office, I seriously think I'm dying.

It feels like every time I close my eyes when I blink, someone is hitting me in the back of the head with a shovel. And not a new shovel either, like an old, rusty-ass one. Also, the shovel is dirty.

My eyes are bloodshot, and I'm sweating profusely (even more so than normal), as I stare at my computer with an Excel sheet up, pretending to be working on it when it's really my old fantasy baseball rankings. Every once in a while, I'll get up and walk over to the high speed printers to pick something up, or go over to the fax machine, or walk briskly out of my office in a huff like I'm pissed about something, just to give the appearance that I'm hard at work.

The reason for this is the two most beautiful words in the English language: open bar.

Last night we had this giant work party, with everyone (partners, secretaries, legal assistants, support staff) invited. It was at Capitale, this really swanky place on the Bowery (Heidi Klum had her Halloween party there last year).

I got way, way too drunk.

But I was not in the top 20th percentile of drunkest people in the room.

That's the great thing about work parties: the strange dynamic of people getting much too drunk, in front of people they shouldn't get too drunk in front of, and losing all control of themselves.

It was a complete shit show. People falling on dance floors. Co-workers making out. Managers getting hit on by the people they supervise. People embarrassing themselves in karaoke.

Our table was situated by the entrance, a giant opening that was flagged by two large panes of glass. For about a third of the night we sat at the table, watching drunk people walk face first into this glass, not realizing that it wasn't part of the entrance. Of course, nothing is funnier than people hurting themselves, unless it's drunk people hurting themselves. Hilarious, but definitely one of those "you had to be there" things.

After the event, we went to a bar nearby (because four hours of hard core drinking is not nearly enough, unless you're a total pussy). That's about the time it gets all blurry...I remember talking to a friend of mine who's having trouble with her "boyfriend" and it was kind of similar to my conversation with my ex this past Saturday night:

Me: "You know what you should do to get back at him?"
Her: "What?"
Me: "Sleep with me."
Her: "Oh come on."
Me: "What? Look at me! Do you know how pissed he'd be if he learned that you slept with a guy who looks like me! That'd really, really piss him off."
Her: "That's like a pity fuck then."
Me: "I don't mind at all. Trust me. I don't think the the saying, 'Beggars can't be choosers' has a more appropriate application."
Her: "Still, it's not a good idea."
Me: "Look, I'm not asking you to decide now. Just think about it. Do you want me to take my shirt off so you can see what you'd be in for?"
Her: "That's ok."
Me: "Just a little taste?"
Her: "No, no I'm ok."
Me: "Ok, but just think about it."

I went to the bathroom (to throw up, because I had duck at the party, and though I love duck, it was really too sweet, and something had to give), and when I came out, everyone had left me.

I made it back to my place to find my roommate Ben and five of our co-workers drinking beers, smoking up, and eating an astonishing $54 worth of burgers, hot dogs and fries (cheese, chili, and plain).

Again, blurry, so that means I didn't do anything too embarrassing (we hope). When I woke up this morning, head pounding and covered in sweat (oh, I sweat a lot when I sleep), the living room was a disaster. It was like someone had taken a dozen full ash trays and thrown them around the room. After that, they took an order of cheese fries and mashed them into our carpet with their (probably bare) feet.

And now I am here, dying. And I have about six hours to get my shit together, because I am going to have to do it again.

My life is so hard.

[Have a good weekend]

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