If you're going to get ass fuck drunk, throw up on your own side of the bed! Yes, it's true that i don't technically live here, but it is technically (more actually than technically) my bed, and i resent the fact that he has chosen to throw up in it. And on my side! Is there some Freudian slip associated here? Is he figuratively vomiting on my intelligent and independent vagina? Does he resent the fact that my parents have a nice house with a remodeled kitchen and a pool? Is he subconsciously vomiting on the presuppositions that he holds about me and my lifestyle?
The aforementioned reasons were brought up by Prof. Beardface's Roommate, whom i spent the better part of the night drinking with. Prof. Beardface, Roommate, and I went out to meet my parents, sister, and brother-in-law, because today happens to be my mother's sixty-first birthday. She decided to celebrate this day by drinking at a skeezy bar with the motley crew mentioned above. Prof. Beardface was dropped off early in the night because he decided to start drinking at 6 pm. (like any good American), and unlike the mighty Taylor's (my family), he is unable to to drink like the red men (/women) that we are, all night long. Roommate and I departed around midnight from "Hog's Breath" (BTW, it's better than no breath at all) and left Prof. B at The Kelly Cottage, to African American Out and dream of a world where everyone listens to The White Stripes, or some such utopian thing, and continued drinking with my over 60 parents at the local dive, KJ's.
Only after returning from drinking with Roommate did I discover the gift that my lover had left me in our bed. Roommate and I stayed longer than usual at KJ's hoping that the lowlife the establishment had hired as entertainment would deiced to play the Smashing Pumpkins song we had requested. We requested Mayonnaise, then Cherub Rock, neither of which are difficult if one had decided to practice guitar through one's awkward years. Unfortunately we spent our last beer listening to covers of Jason Mraz and NIckelback. Upset by the lack of willingness on behalf of the hired entertainment to indulge our high school nostalgia, Roommate and I decided to rock out to some at.the.drive.in on the way home, and stayed in the car until a few choice songs were over. Only then did I get the novel idea to "Get the battery powered speaker/cooler out of the back yard that's covered in sand, get really high, and listen to at.the.drive.in on it in the living room like we're in high school!" I went to take my bra off and BAM! there it was. My hobbit-y boyfriend had lovingly rolled to my side of the bed, and in an unconscious attempt to hold his distant lover (me), had thrown up on the sheets. Maybe "spit up" is the correct nomenclature, as there were no discernible "chunks" in it.
Regardless!
I'm too old to be dealing with people who vomit on a Tuesday night out with the "in-laws." If you can't handle drinking with some 60 year olds sensibly, then maybe you should just kill yourself. I mean, really. In the end, it all got blamed on me. My drunker-than -shit sister asked me, to ask my boyfriend (prof. B.), if he would get her husband drunk so she wouldn't seem like an alcoholic when she tried to rally the family troops on an excursion to KJ's. Even though I asked Prof. B. to "PERSUADE" Brother-In-Law to go to KJ's, I was accused of trying to get Prof. B. to get Brother-In-Law drunk, which by proxy means that Beardface got drunk, which is my fault. Obviously.
Beardface insists on "whisper jets," a shot composed of Rumpleminze and Stoli, and tastes like a hooker spit mouthwash into your mouth. And your eyes. I'm not sure how or why, but i know that's how it feels. The whisper jet attacks all of the senses. Mainly the Common Sense. When an individual suffers from "whisperjetivits" they will exhibit a general lack of common sense. Dancing sexually with one's mother-in-law is one example. On her birthday. Sixty-First birthday. Also, laying mostly horizontal in a mostly vertical car seat on a ride home and professing one's love (no really, I FUCKING LOVE THIS) to NPR is another. There are more serious side effects of "whisperjetivitis" including shaving one's head (like with a bic. Like REALLY shaving your head bald) even if you're not balding and throwing up on your lover's side of the bed in the shape of cock and balls.
In the end it wasn't such a bad night. Sure, i'm unable to sleep in my bed on a Tuesday night, but what-the-hey i'm up a 3:46am posting a blog. By the time i get through spell checking this bitch, the "spit up" will be dry, and I can sleep in it anyway. I've slept in grosser things. Only recently Prof. B reserved a room for us in the mountains of Georgia, that can only be described as a "fuck dungeon." I would not want to hold a blacklight/UV light/valmorification-light-whatever to that room for fear of what I might find in the heart shaped jacuzzi tub strategically placed by the king sized bed OR on the mirrors surrounding the entire upper loft of that cabin. I'm not sure if those lights work on mirrors but still. IT could be worse.
Atleast i'm not living in Haiti. Fuck those guys.
