Praying to my Porcelain God

Somehow it is only fitting that the first time I drink to the point of illness since college is with my college roommate and instigator Barbara.

Barbara and I have had long torrid affair with alcohol, including run-ins with friends' fists, 1 am trips to the delis for pitchers of Bud Ice (yes, it does look like urine, but even worse, it tastes like urine) and even getting a friend of ours arrested once (totally by accident, I swear).

We started out in a nice little bar and grill where, overtaken by the spirit of Bond in the recently rented Casino Royale, I had the best dirty martini---just the perfect amount of olive juice and a very smooth vodka. Well, I've never been one to say that martinis should be sipped and savored, but I also usually don't pound them like water on a hot day.

By the time we got to the actual bar, I could hardly carry on a cohesive conversation. Barbara, who was drinking Jack n' Ginger like it was going out of style, quickly caught up with my level of drunkenness. Neither of us have any memory of paying, leaving the bar, flagging down the taxi or getting to my hotel room. But we did--in one piece. And the night had just begun. I almost wish I had a third person video of that night, with Barbara and I laying on either side of the toilet on the cold tile floor, alternating turns on our knees. I have not been that intoxicated since my senior formal where I locked myself into the student union bathroom and my poor ex-Beloved had to drag me out of the girl's bathroom to his room, where I puked red wine for hours in the sink.

Officially, I'm getting old. I can no longer rebound from my alcohol. In fact, I swear, when I woke up this morning (36 hours later), I was STILL hung over. I honestly think I peed straight vodka for the first ten hours the next day.

I was a true champion in college, but I think if this weekend is any indication, my glory days are over.