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22 January 2002 (Tuesday): masochistic streak

I got a pomegranate mimosa at brunch the other day. I don't know what possessed me, after my little adventure in alcohol poisoning at the DNA Lounge a few months ago. As for the mimosa, it had the expected effect: after drinking all of three sips, my face rashed over, I got a nasty headache, my pulse started pounding and the room seemed to get very cold. And this went on for a good three hours, with nary a buzz. Drinking for me is about as fun as climbing into wet jeans on day 4 of a camping trip. It only sounds amusing afterwards.

I have to admit a certain morbid fascination with putting my body through strange stuff, though. Ava scolded me once when I steam-burned myself rather badly on the forearm, and just stood there fascinated, watching the blister crackle into view, instead of running it under water. "Wow, that hurts," I said. "My nerve endings are firing like crazy...I wonder where the fluid in a blister comes from? Is it from all the dead epidermis that's forming the cover? Maybe it's antibodies? Ow. Jesus, that's painful. I guess that's the neurons in my brain interpreting all this..."

"You're such a goofball," sighed Ava.

After I had the white russian that night at the DNA, the same sort of curiosity took over (although it had a lot less brain-space to work in, seeing as I dislike nausea a lot more than sharp pain). I sipped the drink cautiously, and when the usual red-facedness didn't hit, I shrugged and downed the rest of it. Waited. Nothing. Strange, I thought. I got up to dance. Dancing was fun. A lot of fun. I don't think dancing is supposed to be this much fun, I thought, and found myself laughing out loud at the notion. So this is what it's like! I giggled to myself. Yay, I'm finally drunk!

Everything stayed fuzzy-beautiful for about twenty minutes, and then as abruptly as a power outage it hit me: something was very wrong.

I sat down. My whole body seemed to be crying out to me, setting off every alarm it could think of: panic adrenaline, waves of nausea, a creeping numbness in my fingers. Something is trying to kill you, it was saying. Do something!

Finally I struggled to my feet and tried to make my way across the room, to a lounge chair...maybe I'll lie down or at least almost lie down, maybe I'll just sleep this off, I thought, even as I was terrified of losing consciousness. If I pass out at least I'll be leaning against something...I made it as far as a padded stool up against the wall, and then the world collapsed. Or did it?

And this is the part that fascinated me, even as I thought I'd never felt so awful in my life, even as I felt the distinct possibility that I might not live through the night: one by one my senses shut down until only hearing was left. I dissolved until I was nobody, just a receiver of sound. The music stayed as clear as a bell, and I listened to the sounds of people moving, talking, floating past, panning left to right as though I were hearing them through headphones. It was pitch dark. I pawed tentatively at my eyes, but I couldn't feel them or anything else, wasn't even sure if my arms had moved. But I was convinced my eyes were open.

After about five minutes I was proven right: my vision began to flicker back, so that the room was full of tiny dots of colored light, moving rhythmically in the blackness, clusters of them swaying together. It was, of course, blacklight effect on white clothing, and after a few split seconds I understood what I was seeing. My vision flickered again, then came back a little stronger: the room was a grainy photograph, alive with motion. Wow, I thought. This is so cool.

And then I really had to puke.

The rest of the story is pretty stereotypical: I stumbled (still half-blind) into the women's restroom (thank god I'd noted where it was when I came in) and groped my way into a stall (well aware I looked like a drunken idiot), and proceeded to throw up at regular intervals for the rest of the evening. As soon as my sight returned I made a beeline for the drinking fountain, and that probably saved me. Gaudior, once he found me, was the picture of tactful assistance, and eventually I ended up on the couch in his living room with a wastebasket he'd rummaged up for me. To this day I'm proud I didn't hurl in his car on the trip home. That took some effort.

So yeah. I can't drink. "You need to get your liver checked out," Gaudior advised, and he's probably right.

But I've gotta say, seeing the world like that was really something.

posted by enjelani @ 12:10 AM PST

Replies: 1 comment

Wow... i've never been drunk.

Your story scares me.

But if I ever do get drunk, it'll be in someone's home, around a bunch of my friends who I know will take care of me.

Hopefully I won't launch my stomach out at anyone or their posessions though... ;)

posted by syndromes @ 04 07 2002 11:30 PM PST