When I was a senior in High School, most of my grade went to the Bahamas for Spring Break. It was awesome; everyone in the city you could possibly want to see or interact with in a tropical locale was there. What wasn’t so awesome was the night that I drank an entire Yard at Senor Frog’s. I sort of remember dancing wildly and feeling great until we got in a cab to go to the next club, a place (ironically) called Cocktails & Dreams. When we arrived, I staggered over to a swinging bench on the beach and threw myself onto it, only to pitch forward face-first into the sand. It occurred to me then, as I lay on the ground in a semi-comatose state, that the night was not going to improve from there.
I finally got up and made my way to the bathroom, which I soon learned was a problematic place to be for two reasons. There was a bathroom attendant stationed by the sinks, which would’ve been fine, except for the fact that the bathroom doors were so short that she could see me as I rested on the dirty, dirty floor in the fetal position.
I’d like to take this opportunity to tell you something I learned that night: there are few things more degrading than hearing other drunk bitches talk about you while you’re basically catatonic and unable to defend yourself. They kept saying things like, “OMG, holy SHIT, do you see that GIRL?? She’s, like, TOTALLY PASSED OUT on the FLOOR! And she’s wearing a DRESS! Do you think she’s OK?! LOLZHAHAHA”), and I could form sentences in my mind, but I couldn’t make the words come out of my mouth. It was like being in hell. Finally, the bathroom attendant summoned some of my friends, and they took me home in a cab while I clutched a cup of water and tried not to die.
Man…those sure were the days.