I have been sick all week long. This is the fault of PGS Joe, who breathed on my roommate, who in turn breathed on me. Wednesday night we pathetically sat on the couch together, eating chicken noodle soup and watching pathetically bad movies whilst going through an entire box of Kleenex. I creatively dubbed the evening "Misery loves company" and speculated on Hot Heather's possible reactions to finding both our dead bodies on the couch with Miss Congeniality playing in the background. Jim would have laughed, but his lungs hurt.
At any rate, I went to work on Thursday despite a fever and the shakes because I really have that much to do, and unlike the number factory, there are no other people here who can cover for me. As I lamented having to get up and attempt to be functional, Vicodin Jim was lamenting that he couldn't go out and party for Cinco de Mayo.
A word on Cinco de Mayo: Chicago, where Jim and I reside, is not in Mexico. If it were, it would make no difference, because they don't get nutty over this in Mexico like we do in America. The fact that we do merely proves to me that we are a country of drunks, and that alcoholism is the true national pastime. And I have absolutely NO PROBLEM with this whatsoever. I just don't need to make up holidays as an excuse to get drunk. I'm happy to get drunk any old time. So missing the festivities of Cinco de Mayo was not on my list of things to be crabby about while I rode the train to work Thursday morning with fire in my lungs.
After putting in a 9 hour day, I was looking forward to drinking that sweet elixur NyQuil and passing out indefinitely upon my arrival at home. Alas, it was not to be. Well, the drinking and the passing out was, just not the NyQuil.
I wearily climbed the stairs to my second floor abode, but could not enter due to a 6 foot tall human with a bottle of Jose in one hand and a shotglass in the other sitting in a chair with a pile of chewed up limes in front of it and a fresh box of tissues at his feet. This human would be my roommate Vicodin Jim. "I thought you were sick, " I wheezed. "What are you doing?"
"I am sick," he replied cheerily, "but I can't even tell now because I've had 10 shots of tequila and a whole bunch of beers. I'm not going to let being sick ruin my Cinco de Mayo! Holy shit! You look like death! I mean really, you're all pale! Are you ok? Heather, go make Amber some tea before she passes out. Do you want me to make you some tomato soup? Oh and Heather, could you cut up another lime and bring a beer for Amber too?"
It was true. I was pale and I did look like death. Because of this I protested Jim's plan. Tea was ok, beer not ok. Tea, NyQuil and my bed. That was the plan I was sticking to. Jim would have none of it. "No. Some tea to revive you, and then you're drinking with me. Now, go put on some sweatpants, get a shot glass and come back out here."
At what point, exactly, did I lose all instinct for self preservation and the ability to think for myself? I'd like to go back to that moment, if you please, and slap myself.
I got some comfy clothes, scrounged up my shot glass and trudged wearily back to the porch, where I found Heather with my fresh cup of tea, freshly cut up lime, and freshly opened bottle of Corona Light. Jim poured us each a shot, while Heather informed us that we were on our last lime. Let the debauchery begin.
Jim and I went through the final lime in the space of about 10 minutes. Being that Jim was drunk, Heather was tipsy, and I was on my way, we decided it would be best if we walked the 2 blocks to our local Jewel to replenish our limes. By the way, shopping when drunk is worse than shopping when hungry. Erring on the side of caution we bought no less than 14 limes. Additionally, the spirit of the holiday hit Jim as we were leaving the store, when he attempted to get into some fisticuffs with a little Mexican kid standing outside.
After Heather and I dragged him home, we settled in on the porch. Things escalated quickly. Here is what I remember: 3 beers, 6 shots of tequila, hiding Jim's phone to prevent him from sending drunk text messages to his ex, eating chex mix, and waking up in my bed when my alarm went off at 6 the next morning.
I was confused. How did I get here? I don't remember walking here. Did I walk here? How do I feel? I'm not hung over. Am I still sick? Yeah kinda. But seriously, how did I get here? Another mystery: as I showered I discovered two HUGE bruises; one on each kneecap. Hmmm...
Heather filled in the blanks later. She estimates 10 or 12 shots of tequila were consumed by me, and approximately 25 by Jim. It seems I also drank a few more beers. We were, I am told, visited at some point by our friends the Smash and VonDouche. I have exactly zero recollection of seeing these people. My trip to my bedroom consisted of Jim hauling me to my feet and Heather walking me there. The tequila was emptied. Most of the limes were destroyed. I did not, it seems, do anything untoward, such as fall down the stairs or try to suck anyone's dick, which is good I suppose, but does little to explain the bruises on my knees. I may never know the story of that.
The moral of the story is...well, there really are no morals in this story. But what I learned was sickness needn't prevent you from getting pissed on fake holidays, tequila seems to have the ability to wipe out my memory and if I'm going to be drinking it, it's best to be at home amongst caring and helpful roommates and not out and about, because who knows how many people/canines/fire hydrants I would have tried to sleep with and/or beat up on my way home?
But I would really like to know what happened to my knees.