Just Dance. Gunna Be Okay?

Most of the time, I think that I know what I am talking about.  Most of the time,  I think that what I am doing, in that moment, is prepared and well-thought out.  Most of the time,  I can justify my actions.


This is not one of those times.


'Twas a brisk Spring day in May of 2011 when I sat down at a computer in the the library of WCSU.  I opened up my email and noticed I had received a message from my father's sister, aka my aunt. Basically, she had written me to ask if I would house/ dogsit for her while she and her husband brought my cousin to Disney World in August.  I agreed.  I mean, who doesn't need want $300 for sitting around?


Come August, I drive my jeep out to Long Island and find myself utterly bored and alone in this quaint, suburban area.  There was only so much shopping, at an expensive mall, that I could do in four days without spending all of my hard-earned cash.  I would cook meals that took some time to make.  Let the dogs out at their designated times.  I know I watched a Millionaire Matchmaker marathon...twice.  So, you see, boys and girls, the boredom became immense.  Even the sound of my own voice got boring, and that never happens.


Day 2 started becoming even more mundane than the previous day and this is when I started to talk to myself.  Not just little phrases here and there, no no.  I mean full-on conversations.  When I got bored of conversing to myself, I started talking to the German Shepard, who literally did not care.  However, I found the bear-sized shape of his head quite entertaining for, like... another fifteen seconds.


That is when it hit me.  Not only would this brand new idea coerce me to leave the house, but it was cheap and legal.  In reality, my idea-of-fun does not have to have even one of those qualities, but if one, or both, are part of the equation, I'm fuckin' down like a clown at a ginger's birthday party.  What is this brilliant idea you ask?


Wine, Bitch.  Wine.  Pinot Grigio, to be Frank.  Who is Frank?


When I got back from the liquor store, it took me a half an hour to locate a wine opener in my aunt's house.  I started to panic and curse out loud.  If I had to leave and go buy a wine opener, I would have, because there was no way I was enduring another sober night here when I had two more days to go.  Fuck, no!  Luckily, I dug through every kitchen drawer with vigor until I found one.  Eureka! (not just a vacuum brand, guys)


Happy hour for me started at 3pm that afternoon.  I had made myself and omelette and started off drinking the wine in a proper wine glass with my food. Two glasses later: I was buzzed and thought I was finished with my wine, so I washed the glass and placed it back where I had originally found it.  A half hour went by and I was still bored out of my skull.  I did not want to dirty that glass again, so I decided to use a solo cup.  Eventually, I was neglecting cups altogether and chugging the bottle like it was teat nectar.  Before I knew it, over half of the bottle was housed.


Let me explain that this was not an average bottle of wine.  This was one of those bottles that you buy so you can drink wine over the course two weeks between one or two persons.  I justified that drinking alone was okay when you were this bored.  Smart.


Soon enough, I was blasting Lady Gaga at top-volume with the bottle of wine as my microphone.  I remember thinking it would be a sweet invention if you could make a wine glass into a microphone and still be able to drink out of it.  Then, I said to myself that this invention will be my claim to fame when I am a world-renowned recording artist.  So, now it was time to sing to myself in the mirror since I was going to be famous.  I did this for about twenty-minutes until it was time to break it down and dance.  Gunna be okay???


Of course, within this short duration of time that I was shit-faced and alone, my ex-boyfriend decides whilst he is drunk and alone that it would be fuckin' sweet to text me.  I gave in because of initial curiosity to see what he wanted and because I was so down to drunk-text anyone at that moment.  It was not until about fifteen minutes later that I had realized exactly what I was doing.  If I was sober, I would have never entertained such a conversation.  There was nothing immensely offending said within the texts, but we started talking about my breastial-region, for God-knows what reason.  That is when I decided to stop the conversation and start crying about how much I could not stand that he was communicating with me.  Oh, dear.  Pandora's box just exploded.


Drunkenly, I called everyone that I know who knows the situation between my ex-boyfriend and me.  I was sobbing on the phone for an hour with several people.  When I looked into the mirror, I looked like a tomato that got wet-punched in the face.  It's really ugly when I cry, apparently.  My ex-boyfriend used to tell me that.  Like, thanks, have fun finding a wife in your future when you couldn't even be nice to someone who made you breakfast in bed.  'Coz like, that's what you want to hear when your upset and crying... that you look fucking atrocious.  But nobody was here to see how disgusting I looked so I cried on and on. 


After hanging up the phone with the last person, I stumbled all of four feet into the kitchen for some more wine when the room seriously started to spin.  It occurred to me, in the instant, that I had not been this retarded in a very long time.  I was pretty sure I was going to vomit.  No doubt about it.  My throat was about to give birth to an epic barf baby.  So I did drunk-lamaze breathing, where all you can do is move around with your mouth open in hopes that you will delay the upchucking.  If I stopped swaying on that kitchen floor, I would have had to drunkenly clean up the tile of her kitchen.  My aunt would know that I threw up because it would have made her entire house reek.  Not to mention, the dogs would have probably feasted upon my regurgitated bile.  I made the decision to move myself to the bathroom where I could embrace a toilet bowl with open arms.  I tried to get on my feet, using the wine bottle as a cane, but when that did not work, I decided to crawl.  All the while, I was still crying about some kind of shit.  Class. 


When I approached the bathroom about 4 minutes later, I realized that it was about a seven step walk from the kitchen when well.  But I was not well.  I was smashed.  As I inched myself nearer to the porcelain bowl, I yelled at myself out loud, "PULL YOURSELF TOGETHER, DANNY!"  I over-exerted myself when I yelled which prompted the throwing up.  Happily, not one drop landed outside of the toilet.  It took about a minute for most of it to exit my stomach and then I rested my head on the seat as I sat on the floor.  


I turned my head to see both of my aunt's massive dogs watching me.  I did not know if my barf was appetizing or if they were genuinely worried about me.  I assume it was a bit of both.  They knew if I died, they would not get fed or let out.  But at the same time, they would have survived on my corpse and vomit if my body gave out, and it certainly felt like it was going to.  I needed to pick myself up off of the floor and let these dogs out for their evening shit.  It was now 7:30 pm.  It was not even dark yet and I was laying on the toilet.  I can't recall if I was laughing at a spider on the toilet paper of not.  I knew it was there and I think I named it Charlotte.  Good times.  Miss that arachnid.  Cheers, my 8-legged friend.


I barfed on-and-off for about another hour until I started to sober up.  It was only 8:24pm when I looked at the digital clock in my aunt's room.  Like a true asshole, I thought, "well, what the fuck am I going to do for the next five hours that I am awake?"  I sighed and plopped myself onto the couch when I noticed that the three last released Harry Potter DVDs were just sitting under the television.  UMMMMM... Marathon?!!!!!


In reality,  I probably should have reversed the entire evening.  I should have discovered the Harry Potter DVDs before I decided to soak myself in an entire family-sized bottle of wine.  The Half-Blood Prince would have been so much more enjoyable if I had not been dry-heaving through the entirety of it.  


I am glad that I took the time out of my life to experience drinking by myself.  Who knows what act(s) I put on while intoxicated and surrounded by others.  Now, I know that if Lady Gaga comes on, I'm not just dancing to impress and lure-in the men folk.  I am dancing because Gaga has some fuckin' sweet tunes.  I also know that I should steer away from bantering with ex-boyfriends via text (so should most of us).  That upsets me even when sober.  So boredom, loneliness and alcohol result in ugly tomato-face Danny.  Apparently, she is the fucking worst.  


I am not saying that I would never drink alone again.  If at any time, in my existence, I am that bored again, I will entertain myself with some alcohol.  Mind you, though,  I have to be extremely withdrawn or have exhausted all other forms of entertainment to make the decision to wreck myself by myself.  


Eh, fuck it.  I would do it on a whim.  Let's be honest.


The next morning, my head felt like someone tried to mummify it but gave up half-way through and just left it to rot.  My hair smelled like it could use some shampoo and if you have ever smelled the inside of a dead person's butthole, that would be the scent of my breath in that moment.  I was rockin' a t-shirt and day-and-a-half old underwear, due to the fact that I had woken up at 2pm that day, only thirteen hours after I decided to start drinking.  When I looked into the mirror, I decided that I looked like a slutty, band groupie getting up to perform a walk-of-shame, which is totally appropriate seeing as I was house-sitting for my aunt, who was infamous in my family for sleeping with Eddie Van Halen in the 80s.  


Ugh, sometimes my self-esteem gets in the way of my dreams.  Maybe next time I see Incubus in concert, I will share my wine with Brandon Boyd.  I am positive I would bring something interesting to his table.  


If not, we could just watch Harry Potter.