Things went very very wrong on Friday night. Very wrong. More wrong than they should have, and that's saying something because I was in downtown Minneapolis on Friday night, and we all know how that usually goes. In fact, that is part of the reason that things went so horribly terribly wrong.
It started because I am poor. I am poor and I can't afford booze at the bars. And when I start drinking I start to believe that I can afford booze, and then my credit card is worn out the next morning. My hungover conversations with my purse usually go like this:
"What the hell happened last night?"
"You drank."
"I can't have had that much."
"You whipped me out and started buying Liquid Cocaine shots for the bar."
"Nuh-uh."
"Yeah-huh."
"Why didn't you stop me?"
*Snort* "My great and mighty masters want your money. You will be indebted to them for eternity."
"But don't you have a limit?"
"My limit is when my barcode is worn away and I'm broken in half. Which, by the way..."
"Shit."
Ok, it isn't usually that bad. But there is always a shock when I get my bill. Except in Wisconsin. Drinks are cheap over there. Minnesota sucks.
So things started to get bad because I pregamed. I pregamed hard. I had two bottles of rum that were near the bottom, so I decided to finish them. Consequently, I had had five very strong drinks and was starting on my sixth when my friend arrived to pick me up.
I thought I was fine, but apparently not. I found out the next day that we stopped at a liquor store to pick up provisions. I have no memory of this, but apparently I was acting like a champ because I bought booze. Pat on the back for my acting skills.
By the time we got to my friend's apartment, I was definitely feeling hazy. I plopped myself at the kitchen table, had a shot of schnapps, and poured myself a glass of wine. I wanted to keep the haze going for as long as possible.
As I was sitting there, eyes unfocused, waiting for my friend to get out of the shower, my phone rang.
Now, my parents knew that I was going out. They knew that I would be partying. So this phone conversation should have maybe gone a bit differently.
First of all, I was confused because the Caller ID said "Work." For a split second in which my heart rate skyrocketed and panic flooded my every sense, I thought it was my current job. I thought I would have to somehow handle a complicated computer question that I was in no way capable of answering in my current condition. But then I remembered that my dad's phone was on the fritz and he was stuck using the office phone. Thank god.
I answered, and this is what I heard:
"Hi, Sweetie, I know you're out having fun, but I wanted to tell you not to worry about the blood when you get home."
WHAT???
You cannot even imagine the horror that those words inspire in someone who does not currently have the strongest grasp on reality. All I could think was that the zombie apocalypse had finally happened. My panic came surging back, and I desperately tried to figure out how I could get home. There was no way that I would be able to find my friend's keys in my current state, much less drive. Was the train running? How many miles was it? Did anyone have a bike?! I thought I saw one in the hallway, but it was locked up, so that brought me back to the fact that I couldn't stay steady enough to work a key. Oh god what was I going to do???
All of this went through my inebriated brain in about a nanosecond. There was barely a pause at all, but it felt like an eternity before my dad continued speaking:
"A picture frame fell on your mom's head. We had to take her to get stitches. She's fine, but it bled a lot, and the stairs look like something out of a horror movie."
Why couldn't he have led with that? To this day, I will never know. My panic calmed a bit, but I wanted to be sure that there was nothing I would have to worry about. Completely forgetting that I was partying with a medical fraternity and was in fact currently in an apartment with five doctors, I texted my best friend.
"How much are head wounds supposed to bleed?"
I expected a derisive text back, but my phone immediately began to ring. I answered, barely said "hello" before I heard his resigned voice:
"What did you do this time?"
I love that that was how he reacted.
That is the story of how my Friday night turned out to be way more dramatic than I expected. I didn't even see the blood when I got home, but in the morning I noticed the splatter all over the stairs. If anyone asks I will tell them that I shot someone infected with the T-Virus.
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