Monday, October 13, 2003

My boyfriend is magic in a bottle

Picture it...
Saturday night, margaritas (literally) by the gallon, and a wee little Heather determined to forget the fact that she had a terrible time the night before and prove to everyone that "Heather can party."

Approximately 5 margaritas later, I endured the following conversation/ series of events:
me: "I think I'm gonna puke."
him: "Really, well, don't puke here. We'll go to the porto-potty."
(Yes, that says porto-potty. Try and save yourself the visual.)
m: ok. let's go.
(proceed to over-used porto-potty, go in, slam and lock door on concerned boyfriend)
h: you okay in there? I was gonna come in and help you.
m: (screaming) I can freakin PUKE by my SELF!
(puking and more puking into porto-potty)
(proceed to five minutes later)

h: I think it's time to take you home.
m: garble, garble, um, garble, yeah
h: Let's get you to the truck.
(in truck)
m: (crying) You're so wonderful. You're taking such good care of me. I've never had anyone to take care of me while I'm drunk.
(Insert Lizzie apology here. In my drunken stupor I conveniently forgot the thonged-ass-falling-off-bed incident. Maybe I meant i'd never had a BOY to take care of a drunken Heather.)
(proceed to five minutes later, at home)
(Heather wanders in, takes off all her clothes. Crawls into bed and sleeps it off only to wake up at five, take ibuprophen to fend off oncoming hangover and then puke AGAIN as ibuprophen decides it doesn't agree with poor little Heather's tummy.)

Heather at 6:55 PM

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