My roommate frustrates me a little more each day. Waking me up when she comes home drunk at 4AM every night. Leaving her mounds of clothes, shoes, purses, trash, and books all over the entire apartment. Using all my laundry detergent without asking me and not telling me we’re out when it’s time to wash my underwear.

Why can’t she be like me? Why can’t she go to bed at 11:30PM and clean up after herself and only use her own things? With all my bad roommate experiences, I sometimes wonder if there even are people like me in the world that I could live with and get along with.

So to try and distract myself from all this, I thought I’d tell you a story about the last time I got really drunk. Since, you know, Kate does it every night.

It was the last spring semester, I believe February or March 2007, my sophomore year. I’d become good friends with some people in my beginner’s 16mm film class, and throughout the previous semester, we’d gotten into the habit of having parties at one guy’s dorm, where we all basically sat around, drank a lot, and played juvenile games like Spin The Bottle and Truth Or Dare. Although I tended to shy away from the gaming portion, I grew quite fond of the drinking.

So in the spring, we all kept hanging out together, getting drunk. I never got really drunk, though, just enough to make me “happy.” Then came one night which I will always remember as the one true “college girl” night of my life. There was a rent party being held in the East Village (you know, where there’s free drinks but a cover charge at the door so the host can pay their rent for the month), and my friend Sam invited me, to which I unhesitatingly agreed. She said we were going to pre-game at her cousin’s apartment. (And I honest-to-Bob did not know what “pre-gaming” meant prior to that evening.) So we went to his place, and he provided us with free screwdrivers (vodka and orange juice, for you wholesome people) and Bacardi Razz. It was not a huge bottle of Razz, but I liked the flavor, and eventually realized I’d had about half of it in half an hour. I’d also finished my screwdriver… and most of Sam’s, since she didn’t like it. I felt totally fine. I’ve generally been able to hold my alcohol very well. I mean, the December before, I’d gone to a send-off party for some friends studying abroad and had downed two Smirnoff ices and about 9 shots of various liquors without vomiting or attempting to make out with any strangers.

After an already drunk cousin forced us to watch the first five minutes of Magnolia (and only the first five minutes), we met up with another guy friend of ours and headed to the party. $10 cover and a half-hour shimmy to the open bar that was only five feet from the door. The apartment was literally packed wall-to-wall with over a hundred people. If there hadn’t been an upstairs, there’s no way there would’ve been room for us. Sam and I eventually got to the bar and ordered sex on the beaches, which I thought were quite good. Since we couldn’t really move due to the crowd, we just stood their with our guy friend, talking about stupid shit. I don’t even remember what we talked about anymore during that point. When I finished my drink, I went back and got a rum and coke. Now, I don’t know what kind of rum it was or if that even matters, but this particular drink must be my weakness. Granted, I’d probably miscalculated my enormous intake of Bacardi and vodka prior to the party, but after I finished the rum and coke, I fucking lost it. Most of what happened after that is remembered only in bits and pieces or from what others have told me after the fact. I apparently started hugging everyone, and told Sam and our guy friend that I wanted to be a bridesmaid at their wedding. (They have never dated.) I started to feel hot and light-headed, so I somehow made my way out of the apartment and down onto the sidewalk outside. I sat down on the cold concrete - being late winter in New York, it was still quite cold, but it didn’t bother me. I thought it felt quite nice.

I puked. It was the first time I’d ever puked from being drunk. It wasn’t horrible though. I realized I needed to, so I leaned over while sitting, and formed a nice pink puddle of chunky liquid next to myself, then put my arms over my head while I tried to will the horrible feeling of drunkenness away. Several pedestrians - bless you, kind New Yorkers! - asked me if I was alright, which I always affirmed. Then one said, “Well, I can’t leave you out here in the cold. I’m a paramedic.” After that I don’t remember how - since I never actually knew which apartment the party was in - but I got back up to the party. It was winding down by that point and was much emptier. I sat down in a chair in the living room, and I guess I passed out. I woke up to someone shoving money in my pocket and walking me and my guy friend downstairs. This kind stranger, presumably the host of the party, put us in a cab, and I guess I managed to tell the driver where we both lived.

My friend was completely unconscious. He had apparently thrown up, as well - but in the party, all over his shirt and the apartment walls. Someone had given him a new shirt to wear as well, but he never has gotten his old one back. We were both lucky to be at such a “safe” party, I suppose.

I feel horrible about what happened next. I don’t know why I did it at the time, but I do remember that when the cab stopped by my friend’s dorm, he was still passed out, so I opened his cab door and shoved him into the street. Thankfully, he got back up to his room somehow, safe and sound. But I’ll always feel horrible about that.

I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t know how much money I gave the cab driver, but it was presumably enough, and I still had five dollars in my pocket the next morning. I don’t know how I got into the building, or how the security guards reacted to my obvious drunkenness, or how I remembered what floor I lived on, or how I got the key into the apartment door, or how I wound up naked in my own bed. But I did.

To whoever gave me the cab money: If I knew who you were, I would’ve given you that $5 and paid back the rest. Honestly. You are a good person and I appreciate you.

To those who have read this story: Don’t drink just to get drunk. It doesn’t feel good and it’s scary when you know you’re drunk, and you don’t want to be, and you can’t just stop being that way.

Edited to add: I have not been drunk once since this night. In fact, this experience kind of turned me off of the drinking thing. I haven’t been to a serious party since, I rarely go out anymore, and when I do drink, it’s just one or two Smirnoffs and maybe a shot of Kahlua. I am now boring.

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