I used to get angry with myself for getting drunk at bars, in dimly lit clubs, at bad house parties.
I was 21 the first time my drink was spiked. I threw up in front of Tequila Jacks while my friends complained that the bouncers would never let them in as long as I was with them. I went home alone in a cab.
I would rip my tights from falling down on concrete, throw up in hotel bathrooms with pristine white floors, cry in groups of friends I’ve since unfriended, and have a smoke outside for good measure.
I’m so much more careful now with the company I keep, the liquor I avoid, the bars I go to.
DJ Emmett plays the Spice Girls for me on request. Winston buys us tequila shots at Babylon. We down Jägerbombs at Zaphod’s and regret it, but not too much.