I Blame Russians. And Potatoes.

Since I've already divulged the drinking story that ended with me throwing up in the bushes outside of a hole-in-the-wall bar in Nowhere, South Carolina, I'm forced to consider other drinking stories of merit. And I have to say...there really aren't many. Not because I've stayed away from the sauce, but because I tend to get sauced in a controlled environment. And really, I'm actually quite contained when drunk. Just a bit more friendly. A bit more touchy. A bit inclined to talk and sing loudly. And a bit more prone to throw up than the average bear. Like...

...the time my first year of grad school that I had been dumped (on Christmas Eve, y'all), made a comeback from the depths of the longest, drunkest February ever, and returned to some degree of equilibrium in March until the week-long series of parties that accompanied the readings of many famous writers. A party - every. single. night.

On the very last night, when it seemed that everyone began the night roughly three to four drinks in from the alcohol still coursing through her system from the night before, there was a happy hour before the reading where I drank wine. And then we left the happy hour and went to the reading...where I drank more wine. But then, I decided that instead of drinking white wine by the tumbler-full at the party that I would try something different. Enter the six-pack of Smirnoff Ice.

Perhaps if I'd have had just one, I would've been okay. But in a very short time span, I drank five of them. Five - and I was carrying less poundage to absorb those babies. So by the time we headed from the party to the bar for a last-call night cap, I was swaying dreamily and talking to loud and flirting too much. Which is why I let a boy buy me a Heineken.

I think I finished the beer. I don't know. I can't remember. I do remember that we were in the upstairs of the bar when I told Kim I didn't feel well. And I sort of half remember going down the stairs and standing by the pool table and waiting for...someone? But I do remember stumbling into the ladies' room, bursting through the middle stall - the only one open - and proceeding to empty all 60 oz. of Smirnoff Ice from my body into one overflowing toilet.

God bless Kim. She had the compassion to grab my hair and literally hold me a hairsbreadth from God only knows what. I remember seeing that swirl of toilet paper lapping against the brim and heaving all over again and thinking, This is the grossest moment of my life.