Well ... what can I tell you about my weekend?Friday night I met ... err ... some guy. We had a few drinks, we went back to my place, yada yada yada.
(Feel free to interpret "yada yada yada" however you want ... I find people think I'm much wilder and more excitingly badass when I leave the events in my life vague and open to interpretation.)
Saturday I visited my Dad and his girlfriend for dinner. He cooked this meal that he used to cook on really special occasions when I was younger that just happened to be my favourite thing to eat, like, ever. So that was cool. It's nice when your family keeps track of what your favourite things are. Comforting.
Anyway, they also let me have an awful lot of wine that night ... and if you want an idea of what happened, take a look at my icq N/A message from today:
"Just because people keep on refilling your glass, that doesn't necessarily mean you should keep on drinking."
(These words of Sunday wisdom are brought to you by Lara Dwyer, who could really, REALLY use an aspirin right now.)
Yes, it was bad. I had maybe seven or eight glasses of wine ... I swear, the second I'd finish a glass, Dawn (my Dad's girlfriend, whom I will now only refer to as Dawn because it's easier, so just remember who she is, OK?) was up from the table and pouring me another one. Bear in mind also that I'm not a large person, and that I don't drink on a regular basis (yet).
I got sick. I haven't gotten sick from alcohol since ... oh. Damnit, nevermind when ... that just brought back some memories I'm not prepared to write about at this particular moment.
I threw up after my Dad and Dawn had gone to bed. I'm just glad I made it to the bathroom in time. Ugh. I hate throwing up from alcohol. I know from experience that I absolutely cannot drink anything, no water, no nothing, because anything I ingest will come back up again within fifteen minutes. So that meant I couldn't even drink anything to get rid of the nasty vomit taste before I went to sleep. There's nothing lower than tasting vomit you can't do anything about ... seriously. But I went into the guest room, curled up on the futon, fetus-style, knees at my chest, nauseous and cold, feeling my bones dig into me as I huddled up like a folding chair under about seventeen blankets. It's weird to be losing so much weight ... I'm starting to feel fragile these days. I may not look that way, but I'm just not used to being able to feel all these bones poking everywhere ... it's strange. And it didn't help my state that night. It made me feel frail and useless.
Sunday (which is technically yesterday, since it's now after 1 am) I woke up feeling achy and groggy sometime after noon (yes, even if I factor in the time change), made toast with peanut butter -- first time I've had breakfast in months -- and forced myself to finish both pieces. Hey, if I'm going to lose weight, I'd honestly prefer it not be a direct result of inadvertently starving myself as I have been for the past couple of months.
Then I had my dad drive me home (where I discovered we were fresh out of aspirin), made some kind of good-for-hangovers herbal tea that didn't really work but tasted OK, and spent the afternoon online catching up on favourite diaries and checking my stats and such. Because I'm a dork.
Yada yada yada.
And that was my weekend.
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