I’ve been feeling some kind of way — not great — and the prospect of having a night out with some drinks was not only tempting, it was something I needed. And so, along to a bar we went for the first time in a long time. I haven’t had alcohol in quite some time. I don’t really like it most of the time, as my body seems to not understand how to metabolize it properly. But more often than not, I can have about 1 drink before cutting myself off. Last night was a different story. I ordered a whiskey sour, and sipped on it slowly. When I was about half a glass down, I could feel my face warm up. I was red, but this wasn’t unusual. Solen drank the rest of it to ensure I don’t get ill. But I suppose it was too little too late.
Another hour passed and the table was just abuzz with conversation and cat videos when suddenly, while watching Paige’s cats run on a big wheel, my head started to feel metallic. That’s the only way I can truly describe it, my senses felt metallic. I knew what was coming next, so I ran outside and crouched down, feeling like breathing was a feat of labor while my stomach made gurgling sounds and my hands shook.
It had started raining then, something none of us expected, but it felt pretty good to have cool water drip on my neck. I felt like I had to barf, but nothing was coming out. In fact, my mouth was very dry. I stared at the ground where lights from cars bounced off a puddle. The sparkling lights gave me something to concentrate on while my body wholly rejected the half a drink I had, which to be honest, was mostly sour mix.
From that point on, I couldn’t stand up. One thing I’ve learned from past drinking experiences was that the lower to the ground I could crouch, the better. Standing up warranted an immediate nausea that could make me either pass out or projectile vomit — neither of which I wanted to do.
So there I was, crouching in the rain, wondering what the fuck is wrong with me that I can’t even ingest just the tiniest amount of alcohol to hang out with every one else. Good thing I didn’t imbibe in the Pickleback — an unholy marriage of Jameson and pickle brine — but I’ll admit I was very curious.
So the night ended with me taking an Uber back, all the while concentrating on not vomiting in the back seat. Did I party hard? No, I barely had 1 drink. I suppose while everyone had their vices, alcohol could never be mine.