You're a fool for stickin' 'round
Eric invited me to a party at his friend's apartment. His car blew up last week so I drove over there. There are about twenty people around that I don't know, except for the Girl who lives there.
Eric and I start doing shots of tattoo. I chase it with beer, because tattoo is overly sweet and disgusting. However, the mixture soon takes over my stomach and I'm left with no recourse but to puke into the kitchen sink. I clasped my hand over my mouth, but that only made things worse. I had puke going from my shirt down to my chuck taylors. I panicked, and began pouring dish soap everywhere and rinsing it with the hose attached to the sink. When I think I've got it all I run to my car.
The only clean shirt I can find is one that my stepsister gave to me, and that my mom packed into my suitcase. It's light blue, and has the words "PORN STAR" under silhoutted nude females. It is humiliating. I smell like tomatoes and there is nothing I can do. I walk back through the apartment towards the deck and ask Eric for a cigarette. As I am smoking, and Eric is trying to make me feel better, the glass door slides open and a girl steps out saying: "OKAY. WHO THE FUCK PUKED IN MY SINK? SERIOUSLY."
I raise my hand and say: "That was me. I'm really sorry. I tried to clean it the best I could."
"Okay. Well, come back inside and rinse it out some more when you are done smoking your cigarette."
I step back inside, and rinse the hell out of the sink before the girl takes the hose away from me. I apologize profusely, and she says: "Well, at least it wasn't in my bed."
I still smell like tomatoes. I'm wearing a porn star shirt, and I am sulking. As another roommate walks into the room, she looks at me and says "Come on, the bathroom was right there."
"I'm really sorry."
"Alright."
She grabs some air freshner and begins spraying the sink.
I douse my puke laden shirt in cold water and lay it on top of my car. I decide to sober up, and drive home.
The moral of the story is thus. I am somewhat glad that I still have that instinct inside me to tell the truth. I like the fact that I would rather own up to my mistakes than live with the guilt. It seems selfish, but it is one of the few things that makes me feel good about myself. I like, at least sometimes, to not feel like a complete worthless cynic. I like to feel like a nice guy, and maybe it's because I don't really have much else going for me. I have to have something to cling onto right?
Eric and I start doing shots of tattoo. I chase it with beer, because tattoo is overly sweet and disgusting. However, the mixture soon takes over my stomach and I'm left with no recourse but to puke into the kitchen sink. I clasped my hand over my mouth, but that only made things worse. I had puke going from my shirt down to my chuck taylors. I panicked, and began pouring dish soap everywhere and rinsing it with the hose attached to the sink. When I think I've got it all I run to my car.
The only clean shirt I can find is one that my stepsister gave to me, and that my mom packed into my suitcase. It's light blue, and has the words "PORN STAR" under silhoutted nude females. It is humiliating. I smell like tomatoes and there is nothing I can do. I walk back through the apartment towards the deck and ask Eric for a cigarette. As I am smoking, and Eric is trying to make me feel better, the glass door slides open and a girl steps out saying: "OKAY. WHO THE FUCK PUKED IN MY SINK? SERIOUSLY."
I raise my hand and say: "That was me. I'm really sorry. I tried to clean it the best I could."
"Okay. Well, come back inside and rinse it out some more when you are done smoking your cigarette."
I step back inside, and rinse the hell out of the sink before the girl takes the hose away from me. I apologize profusely, and she says: "Well, at least it wasn't in my bed."
I still smell like tomatoes. I'm wearing a porn star shirt, and I am sulking. As another roommate walks into the room, she looks at me and says "Come on, the bathroom was right there."
"I'm really sorry."
"Alright."
She grabs some air freshner and begins spraying the sink.
I douse my puke laden shirt in cold water and lay it on top of my car. I decide to sober up, and drive home.
The moral of the story is thus. I am somewhat glad that I still have that instinct inside me to tell the truth. I like the fact that I would rather own up to my mistakes than live with the guilt. It seems selfish, but it is one of the few things that makes me feel good about myself. I like, at least sometimes, to not feel like a complete worthless cynic. I like to feel like a nice guy, and maybe it's because I don't really have much else going for me. I have to have something to cling onto right?