Last night was the wrap party for the show I worked on earlier this year, Wildboyz. It was at the Knitting Factory, and they had several bands—including Turbonegro (who rocked). More importantly (in general and for the purposes of this entry), there was an open bar. And I took a taxi there. And a flask, because I didn’t know there would be an open bar. I guess the rest pretty much writes itself.

I woke up completely drunk, late, and aching. My right arm is bruised from the elbow to the shoulder. My left arm is covered in scratches. Amanda, who went with me and stayed night, was rushing around getting ready for work. I called my boss and told him, “I’m so sorry, I’m later than I planned on being, you won’t believe how crazy it was. I’m covered in bruises! Jeez, I’m so sorry. God, I’m glad you gave me my performance review yesterday! Ha, ha, ha.”

Did I mention I was drunk when I woke up? And I don’t remember anything beyond midnight, so I can’t actually tell you how much I drank (beyond the two screwdrivers, five beers, and half-flask of vodka).

Into work I go, completely out of it, glassy-eyed, barely comprehending the words coming out of people’s mouths. One of my supervisors greeted me by calling out, “Hey, Drunkard!” when I got in, at noon (an hour and a half later than I told my boss I’d be).

The minute I signed on to messenger, I got IMs from Donny and Barry, friends who were at the party last night. They both wanted to know whether I was okay, and were amazed I’d gone in to work. I know this must mean bad things. I press them for details and learn that I was essentially poured into a cab by them after we all got kicked out of the bar at two. And after I fell. Three times. That explains the bruises. The way Amanda put it, very diplomatically, “you seemed to be holding court at the bar sitting on a bar stool surrounded by your work buddies and then it was time to go and you couldn’t stand up very well.”

Oh my god. Mortification set in. Although people usually forget this kind of behavior right away, I imagine that they remember it forever, and are doting constantly on the memory of my tits falling out of my shirt as I lay sprawled on the Walk of Fame outside the Knitting Factory, waiting to be poured into a cab. Then I remembered the kind of people that were there, and that they have ALL done way worse, and seen way worse, than any of the shit I did. It’s not as if I stapled my nuts to my leg, or passed out in a puddle of my own urine in a hotel hallway.

Although Amanda did fill me in on some of what happened after we left, and now I understand how people end up in those positions. Apparently, we couldn’t figure out how to get back into my building. It IS a pretty big building, and there ARE about four entrances. Once we did find the right one, I couldn’t remember my apartment number. There are four floors, and every door in every hallway on each of them looks exactly the same. I just kept trying the next closest door with my key. Amanda said, “I finally sat you down and was like, ‘Helena. We can’t keep just trying to break into every apartment in the whole building. YOU HAVE TO remember your apartment number.’ And you focused and finally peeped, ‘137.’” I can not imagine the racket we made going through the halls, at 2:30am on a weeknight, with me intermittently falling.

I spent the day at work making trips to the bathroom about every twenty minutes to throw up whatever small amount of fluid I’d ingested since the last time I threw up. I kept telling myself to make it just a half hour more, and then I could go home early. I did this until it was 6 o’clock. After I got home from work, I had to trade my date for a nap. At 10, I woke up ravenous. One Cheeseburger later, I’m feeling tired but decent, aside from the numerous aches and pains that keep surfacing. Hopefully a hot bath will cure some of those.

All I have to say is that I am partied out for a while. If anyone reading this was there, please accept my apologies for the behavior you witnessed. And know that I don’t usually fall that much.