Absinthe is more evil than Pol Pot. And Hiltler.

I think that the thing is, about plans and epiphanies and shit, that when you put stuff out there into the Universe- stuff like, OHMYGOD 2012 IS ALL ABOUT POTENTIAL and I'M GONNA BE SO GOOD THIS YEAR and WOW I TOTALLY WENT ON TWO WHOLE RUNS THIS WEEK- the Universe is a right motherfucker of a bitch and tests you.



Friday night is my case in point.



I wasn't in the best mental place when I finally rocked home from work 9pm Friday night. In fact, the message to my friend who had invited me out (urm, actually, her invitation was more along the lines of 'You know that gig I was supposed to be singing at? Well I'm not singing anymore. But you are still coming to watch the band, aren't you. Don't argue. It wasn't a question. Good girl. Thanks for being an awesome friend.) was VERBATIM this:

I FORGOT THE MAP AT WORK BECAUSE I HAD THE SHITTEST LESSON EVER WITH A GUY WHO NOW WON'T MARRY ME. I HAVE LOST MY PHONE. I HAVE BEEN ASKED TO WORK TOMORROW. ALL THE BAD THINGS HAPPEN TO ME.  

Will you hate me if I don't come? Dear god I need carbs.

And the next thing I know my phone rings, it turns out I haven't lost it it was just on top of the fridge next to some Australian candy I had forgotten I had, and the only thing my friend says is THANK GOD YOU ANSWERED THE PHONE I THOUGHT YOU WERE GONNA STAND ME UP and I was all, I GUESS I JUST FOUND MY PHONE and she was like, HUH? and I was like, DOESN'T MATTER. GOD THIS CANDY IS GOOD. DID YOU GET MY FACEBOOK MESSAGE? and she was all, NO. I DON'T HAVE TIME TO GO ONLINE: MEET ME IN AN HOUR and because I was suddenly on a sugar high I sighed and just said FUCK MY LIFE.



Then I put a Euro in the swear jar.



Obviously then, cut to 5.30 am the next morning where I'm making out with some bald-headed, earring-wearing, 39-year-old outside of my apartment because there was a taxi strike (THANKS ROME) and when you're all drunk and hazy and some guy offers to drive you home and the Coliseum is all lit-up and romantic it seems rude not to slip him a little bit of tongue in return for his kindness. As so not my type he was, and despite all the metal in his face.



I remember setting my alarm for 7 a.m. as I slipped into bed, saying to myself over and over again, "An hour and a half to sleep, then time to shower, eat, and be at work for 8.30 so that you can teach at 9." I've totally done that before.



I sat bolt upright in bed at 9.30, when my alarm had been ringing for TWO AND A HALF HOURS and by default I had missed the first two lessons of my day.



You see? Only bad things can come of agreeing to work on a Saturday frickin' morning. It's just not natural.



I couldn't understand how I felt so horrific after drinking only three gin and tonics, but then I did kind of remember that it was more lots of gin and not so much tonic what the the Italian free-pouring. I powered-walked to work, apologised to the receptionist who grunted at me in response for being such a dick, and then realised that I had no idea how I had just gotten into work because most probably I was still drunk.



Water. I needed water.



I also needed a breath mint because the three other teachers who walked into the staff lounge all commented on the weird smell of the place, before the nicest guy in the whole of the place pulled me aside and said something along the lines of, "Urm. Do you want a Tic Tac or something? A shower, maybe?"



I was absolutely beyond mortified, and you'd better recognise that despite sitting in the only windowed classroom FREEZING COLD from the January air beating my hangover to within an inch of my life, Saturday I gave the best goddamn lessons I have ever goddam given.



Again: swear jar.



My friend called me as I was heading home.

"You okay?"

"Worst. Day. Ever."

"Why didn't you tell me you were working today? I heard you were late."

"And then some."

"You hit it pretty hard last night."

"I did?"

"Yeah, at one point you found me, handed me a shot, I wouldn't drink it, and so you took two."

"I did?"

"Yeah. You told me not to leave you because you didn't speak Italian and we were the only English people there, but every time I found you you looked as though you were having a great time."

"I DID?"

"You were hysterically laughing for about six hours straight."

"I WAS?"



And then I remembered: the barman. The free shots. The mixing of drinks. The Baileys and Kaluah drink towers. THE FLAMING ABSINTHE. No wonder I slept through my alarm for two and a half hours: I was dead.



Also: apparently drinking water on absinthe actually makes you more drunk before it makes you sober. So that walk to work I missed? YEAH.



Mental note to self: this cannot ever happen again. Ever.



Mental note to the Universe: you absolute fucker. You got me, and I hate you for it.



Also? GAME. ON.