Moving, Dating, And Other Disasters

I am so hungover today. First and foremost, let me mention that I did not move back to Portland. Upon careful consideration, I decided I had nothing going on for me back there that should compel me to move back to the West Coast where I would probably develop seasonal affective disorder and hopefully drown from all the rain.

So I stayed in NYC and decided to move on to full time employment with the diamond dealer.

However, yesterday was terrible. I found out that the apartment of my dreams (which I have had multiple interviews with all of the roommates for) will not be mine. They went with another candidate, stating that they would feel more comfortable living with another guy. Then the guy that I recently went out with has NOT called me back after several days (indicating that it is probably our last date) which really bums me out as well. The reality is, I need to learn to accept rejection better, but I take it way too personally, so yesterday my Aussie friend said we should go out to cheer me up.

Although my memories of last night are patchy, here’s what I remember:

I left to meet up with my Aussie graphic designer friend yesterday after work. We hopped in a cab and headed down to Mulberry Project, this lovely, classy little speakeasy in Little Italy. After dropping about $80 apiece on drinks, we decided to hit up another spot. However, by this time we were both quite buzzed and in an unfamiliar neighborhood, so we ended up wandering around in a large circle on the lower east side, smoking cigarettes and considering places to go.

Finally we found a cab and had him take us to a bar my Aussie friend likes called Boxers. It includes bartenders with ripped abs wearing nothing but their boxers, undoubtedly her brilliant plan to get the Unsuccessful Date Guy out of my head. And that actually worked out pretty well. We negotiated our way into getting enough quarters to play a few rounds of pool and drank a few more drinks. At some point the bartender offered us shots, and it went downhill.

Upon taking the shot, I promptly vomited behind the bar, continued to drink the drink I had been drinking before, and then audaciously left my phone number on the bill when we left…. Apart from the fact that no bartender would call a drunk girl who had practically deposited a distillery on him, we were at a gay bar and our bartender was probably not even into women.

Sadly, my friend’s iPhone was stolen while we were dancing around the pool table, a fate I recently shared when I visited my sister in Florida. I left a voicemail demanding the thieves to bring the phone back (although retrospectively, this made no sense as they wouldn’t know the code to check the voicemail.)

Then we snagged a cab, where our driver was incredibly rude to us, and after dropping my Aussie friend off, took me home, where I yelled at him for being rude and threatened to report him for it. In fact, I actually attempted to do so when I went inside, but was too drunk to make much sense of the requirements for filing a formal complaint against a New York City taxi driver.

My roommate unwittingly asked if I wanted anything from the bodega across the street and I began crying about everything- the apartment, the date that amounted to nothing, the vomit behind the bar, the rude cabbie… He told me it would be okay and I went to bed, naked and alone, and forgot to set my alarm.

I was only 10 minutes late to work today, but woke up and rushed out the door without bothering to shower first, so I suspect that I still smell like the cigarettes from last night. At least not the tequila vomit though, as I did have a chance to brush my teeth. There is still blood on my foot from some unknown source, and I’m fairly certain my boss knows that something went down last night, but at least he’s being nice about it.

I’ve decided not to file a complaint against the cab driver. I think having a belligerent passenger, such as myself, yelling at him at 2:30 am on a Tuesday is probably punishment enough. And I need to more closely consider getting my shit together and possibly taking a sabbatical from drinking.