First of all, like any good drinker, I live by the axiom "you should never show up to a party sober". What better way to make monotone buzzing seem interesting and exciting than to be totally shit-faced. Anyone with half-a-brain, i.e. not me, would have the sense to know that getting drunk at your company function is probably not a good idea. Not a good idea in the way that investing your life savings in Enron was not a good idea. In the beginning it seemed like a fabulous idea, in retrospect, not so much. That night getting drunk, well it seemed like sheer genius.
Because I hate to go into these ventures alone, I enlisted the support of a co-worker with a known drinking problem. She has the best alcohol and the ability to keep up with and far surpass my drunkenness. For the purpose of this story I will call her Anna'sUndertheTable. Anna'sUndertheTable came over and brought the thunder with the biggest bottle of Grey Goose known to mankind. We mixed in a mere eyedropper full of lemonade, and we were good to go. Five quick shots on an empty stomach later and I was feeling the warm goodness of the Goose coursing through me. At some point I got the brain wave that there might be hot guys at this party. Yeah, I was already fucked up. Hot guys at a library party? Sure, that could happen. It's almost as likely as Marcus Schenkenberg and Tyson Beckford showing up at a Star Trek convention dressed like Klingons. But in my drunken mind, it seemed like a possibility.
Just in case, I decided to look presentable. I'm drunk and in the shower, with Anna'sUndertheTable drinking herself into oblivion in my living room, when suddenly I remember that I bought this soap that smelled really good like eucalyptus and spearmint. I decide that I really really want to smell like a koala chewing on a stick of Wrigley's, so never mind that the soap was actually labeled "hand soap". Hands, coochieit's all skin, right? No harm could come from it. I squirt a huge amount of soap on my hand and lather away. Everywhere. Outside, inside, no area was missed. I hop out of the shower, smelling good. I get three more large vodka shots, a halter top, a skirt the size of a bandana, and some fuck-me heels, in that order. Just like that I was ready to meet my library stud.
Anna'sUndertheTable had prepared flasks full of Cuervo Gold. For me, tequila is a bad idea at any time, but after eight large shots of vodka and no dinner, it's a guaranteed ride on a vomitcycle. But I decide what the fuck, you only go to boring library parties twice a year. Why not make it a night to remember?
As we made our way to the party, I became aware of a pleasant feeling of warmth in my general crotch region. I was a little confused by this, but too fucked up to really care about its' origin. I decide that it is just an enjoyable side effect of my intense vodka buzz. Granted one I had never experienced before, but when your crotch is tingling nicely, you don't ask questions. You just go with it.
The party hit me in the face like a shot full of novocaine, and if I weren't already numb from the alcohol, I would have been from all that small talk. Predictably there wasn't a hot man in sight. The night would have been a complete waste of lingerie if it weren't for the fact that the tequila was making everyone look incredibly wavy and shimmery. So pretty. And my genitals were feeling nice and cozy. Altogether it wasn't a total loss.
The more I drank, the farther away my sober self got. She sat at a distance, watching the shenanigans of my shit-faced self. Sober-self shook her head as Shit-face yelled, "What's up bee-yatch?" to Anna'sUndertheTable who was across the room. Sober-self cringed a little when Shit-face was introduced to the husband of a prominent California senator and decided to get one inch from his face and scream, "I can't believe I'm meeting the husband of Senator X. Oh my god, this is so cool. Hi Mr. X. Hi!"
By this time I am more sheets to the wind than I've ever been, but have somehow successfully managed to avoid my boss. People are staring with a mixture of confusion, pity, disgust, and interest. (The interest is mainly coming from a couple of my male co-workers, who apparently see me as a bit of a slut. This is possibly due to the fact that:
On my third run around the room, after I've asked everyone in earshot if I look or sound drunk, I begin to slowly become aware that what had once been a pleasurable feeling of warmth in my panties had now morphed into what can only be described as searing pain. A scalding, boiling pain that seemed to be ever increasing.
I let out a yelp and take off like Kobe Bryant in search of a Johnny Cochrane-like defense team. In the bathroom I discover that my entire crotch area is a color of red that can only be found in Africa, somewhere in the region of a baboon's ass. Not only is it red, it is swelling. I vaguely recall something about a eucalyptus/spearmint soap. Five minutes later, I make the connection that perhaps mint + a tender, sensitive genital area = possible second degree burn. I can almost see my flesh sizzling and blistering before my eyes.
I run out to the bar area, as best a person with swelling genitals can run, and request a cup of ice. At this point I may have looked like a wild animal that had been shot but not mortally wounded. At any rate, the bartender looked frightened and practically threw the ice at me. I hobble back to the bathroom, rip off my thong, and hold the ice directly on my privates. This doesn't help much, but it's better than nothing.
I ponder my next move, decide the party is a total lost cause, and resolve to leave. The combination of alcohol and charred private parts has now made walking a challenge. I am basically leaning on the wall and sliding myself along by sheer force of will. People are definitely staring at this point. I realize I am still holding my thong in my hand, and try to stuff it into the postage stamp-sized purse that earlier I thought was "cute". Now I see that it completely lacks any semblance of functionality beyond usage as "condom carrier". Anna'sUndertheTable is pretending like she doesn't know me, which pisses me off. She also appears completely sober. This also pisses me off.
My boss decides to magically appear as I try to make my escape. She gives me the evil eye and tells me she will talk to me later. I sprint home as only a person with Freddy Krueger's burnt face for a crotch can sprint. An ice cold bath, a huge tube of hydrocortisone and multiple drive-by vomitings in the general direction of the toilet, and I pass out in my hallway.
The next day I'm called into my boss's office, where I pull off the greatest accomplishment of my short life. When questioned about my "abominable behavior" at the fundraiser, I blame it all on food poisoning from bad shrimp. When she asks why I smelled like alcohol, I claim it was "tequila shrimp". A tiny bit of fast-talking later and she buys my story. I leave with my job still intact. My pride is nowhere to be found, but I am still employed. Don't let the sceptics fool you - miracles do happen. Praise God.
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