Back To The Toilet Days

They say old habits die hard and I find myself nodding at it, surrendering my self-consciousness to carnal instincts on binge drinking and this insatiable appetite for alcohol – because I think my liver has given up on protesting.

I must confess. I still drink religiously, but moderately in relative measures. I’m no longer as prolific in emptying glasses, shot trays or champagne bottles like I was 2 years ago, but I’m still pretty decent by any standards, so long as there are drinks I favour available on the table – yes, I’m becoming less of a slut and more of a discerning drinker, it’s like I’m a connoisseur already.

The weekend turned out to be laced with such nostalgic themes like, alcohol amnesia, vomiting, hugging my toilet bowl and hangovers. Oh yes, I remember the days, and if you’ve been following this blog long enough and if you saw me, you’d have stood up and shouted,

“Now that’s Butterfly!”

It started with a harmless message from Faith, and ended with a quiet compunction when I woke up in bed reeking of alcohol 12 hours later. It was going to be a quiet weekend, lazing around watching Poca’s growing library of movies, until Faith suggested we head down to Wine Bar for some drinks because our other friends were going.

It sounded like a docile call to re-toxicate the liver, while disguising under the excuse of catching up over drinks. One part of me was too lazy to get out of bed and but I also had not seen the girls for some time, and Wine Bar sounded like a harmless idea – so long as you keep your Citibank cards locked.

When we got there, everyone was late, so Poca, RotiPrata, Faith and I headed to Zouk members for a drink, or a bottle of vodka to be precise. Then couple more cheers later, it became 2 bottles and a bar laced with Red Bull. Before I knew it, I was back to binge drinking.

Then we adjourned to Velvet, and it became 3 bottles. Somewhere between juvenile taunting of ‘can’t drink ah’ and the more mature, ‘bottoms up’, I might have surrendered a part of my memory to vodka, even though I do remember getting into a cab, and it was downhill from there.

I was trying to hold everything in as much as I could, and if I wasn’t so inebriated and bounded by fatigue, I would have cheered every time we passed a landmark to my house. Periodically, I would glance out and see a familiar building and I would think to myself,

“Two more traffic lights. I can do this. I will not puke in the cab.”

And it was a cerebral countdown, landmarks versus a churning stomach, the Sonata cab versus my will to not vomit.

“Left turn into my estate, only 60 metres to go. I can do this. I will not puke in the cab.”

The moment the cab stopped and Poca got out to my side to wait for me to sign off for my cab, I felt it coming. There was no way I was going to be able to wait out the credit card processing and less be able to decently throw up in the toilet bowl. I swung opened the door and,

“Arrrrrrggggghhh.. arrggghhhh.”

It was creamy, taxing on the throat but relieving for the stomach and I made sure not to splatter on the side of the taxi. I am one amazing human being because I am thoughtful even when I am drunk. I secretly congratulated myself for surviving the journey, although Poca wasn’t as amused.

I remembered walking up to my porch, and then sporadic flashbacks of staggering to the toilet and that was it. I woke up the next morning wondering how I removed my contacts or even climbed into bed. Then I remembered the taxi and I smiled to myself, and then I turned to see Poca, who was not the least bit amused.

Apparently, this was what happened.


Not only did I puke by the cab, I puked at the drain in front of my house. I came up, laid on the bed, too drunk to think but amazingly still had enough concern for my eyes to realize that I needed to remove my contacts.

Then I puked in the toilet again, got out, feeling terribly uncomfortable, too drunk to walk properly but yet again, still amazingly had the decency to brush my teeth – especially when hygiene is never a strong point when you have a penis. I am amazing.

In my drunken state, I was murmuring nonsense to her, most of the time she couldn’t make out what I was saying so she ignored me, except for the part where I went to the toilet and she could distinctively make out my noises to be one of discomfort.

I was in there for so long that she decided to come check on me, so she pushed opened the door to find me sound asleep on the floor – which I must say is a huge improvement over the time my mum found me hugging the toilet bowl.

She knew I was out for the count because I did not respond to her, when she unorthodoxly decided to use the prodding balls method, which is an effective method requiring only your index finger to poke at the person’s balls to ascertain if sex is still a remote possibility.

So sternly, she told me to get up to which I responded with more mumblings - the only natural response for anyone inebriated or mute to begin with. Then I got up, stumbled back into the room where I slept happily ever morning.

Until which, only pissness will greet you when you wake up.