The Daily Durvy

Last Thursday, my roommate TBRE and I threw a joint 21st birthday party. My birthday was back in December and hers was earlier this month. It started something like this:

Honestly, I do not remember much after that picture was taken. Somebody had the brilliant idea to mark the number of shots I took on the back of my wrist, and I brilliantly took 11 shots. If this were 2 years ago, those same 11 shots would be a pleasant drunk in which I danced on a table and probably made out with someone horribly embarrassing in a dark corner of a shady room. Because that’s how I rolled.

However, this time 11 shots was a tad, wee bit overwhelming. And by wee bit overwhelming I mean I woke up naked from the waist up with no comforter, sheets, feather bed, or pillows. I know, I know, I know what you’re thinking. Class-ay. Class up the ass. Classy, not trashy.

The next morning, Emily, who was sleeping on my couch, told me what happened the night before. Long story short, I projectile vomited all over my bed at, wait for it… 11:30pm. Ohhhh baby. I am a party animal.

To have to be filled in on, you know, my life, is not only embarrassing but irresponsible.

Not to mention I must have been oh so sexy at my own party.

Not.

So as Alex likes to now tease me about, I have very potent puke. I soaked my comforter. Thankfully, Emily and a few other friends who are not easily frightened managed to pull all of my bedding off and put in the laundry closet for me. Which I really appreciate, but I don’t think TBRE did. Her room is right next to that closet and I’m pretty sure her room smelled like puke for the next 48 hours.

On Sunday, when I was finally not hungover anymore, I looked at the damage done. I washed the sheets and duvet cover, and the feather bed was fine, but the comforter was… not. Absolute carnage, in the most disgusting way possible.

I called the dry cleaners to get a quote. A very nice woman on the phone politely said, “Your left arm and first born child” and then I cried.

I decided that I didn’t like the comforter enough to give up my children, so I went to walmart.com. And cried again.

As horrible as Walmart is, capitalism, yaddayaddayadda, I found a brand new comforter for $35. I drove over to the store with Alex this afternoon to pick it up, and made sure that it was fluffy and soft and wonderful. And for $35 it totally was.

And it’s $35 I spent on a very disgusting life lesson: 11 is not my limit.

Let’s all say it again, 11 is not my limit.