I went to a friends house last night for drinks. At work earlier in the day, Garblet told me I could stay in one of the spare bedrooms so I wouldn't have to drive home, and therefore I could drink to my hearts content.
Note to self - my hearts content of alcohol does not match my stomach's idea of alcohol.
I think it's fair to say I haven't been this hungover since....ever. And I'm not exaggerating. After I got home to my room, I was lying in bed, and honestly thought to myself "I think I might need to go to hospital. I need to call someone to come save me." Unfortunately, the telephone was about two inches out of my arm span, and I wasn't going to attempt to move that far. I'm not that much of an idiot.
I swear, I shall never drink again. And since I know that I shall drink again, despite my hatred for falling asleep curled around the s-bend of a toilet, I have a cunning plan. I shall pay a friend's son to make sure I take care of myself. All he'll have to do is check on me every hour, hand me water and make sure I drink it, and when it comes to shooters say to me "Make good choices. Be my role-model, not my lesson to learn from."
I did have a good time though. I had my nipple fondled, which was a surprise. Shelly-o was saying goodbye to everyone and kissing all the boys on the cheek, so I thought I'd be clever and I shook her hand. And she shook my hand, and then reached passed my hand and had her way with me. On one hand - feel a bit used. On the other - it's been a while between drinks for the poor body part, so kudos to it.
The boy who is a spitting image of Ioan Grufford was there. From now on we shall call him IG2. Anyway, we were talking for a bit - (Read: most of the night), and everybody went home about 0230am. the lady whose house it was and her partner both went to bed, and IG2 and I stayed up talking. It ended up being a competition - he wasn't going home until I went to bed, and I wasn't going to bed until he went home. So we talked, and drank some and talked some more. Eventually I caved. He was helping me into bed - I was very drunk. Legless in fact. - and I wouldn't stay down. I kept getting up to help him clean up the bottles around the place, and as you can imagine I was as useful as a one-legged man in a butt-kicking competition. So he got me back in bed (can I be shallow and admit I like writing that??) and then he took my shoes off. And then he took a sock off.
"This will relax you. My Mum taught me how to do this." And he gave me a foot massage.
Oh My God.
I don't like people touching my feet. More infomation than you ever need to know about me - the first time I -you know- with a new person I keep my socks on. I'm very self-conscious about my toes for some reason. But this foot massage.....I believe I heard an angel weep true tears of joy just thinking about getting this massage. The boy has skillz.
I had to make him stop.
"Don't you like it?" He asked in a concerned tone.
"I do like it IG2, that's the problem.I like it too damn much."
"Oh." And then he continued to give the damn foot a massage.
So after five minutes, I firmly stopped him by putting said foot under the sheets.
And so at 0500 he went home. End of story.
So, opinions here people - what does a foot massage mean in the scheme of things these days? He's a lovely boy, and we have always gotten along, but is talking for three hours after everyone has gone home, and then helping me to bed and giving a body part a massage a sign? Seriously, I need to know I'm imagining things before I see him at work on Friday.
Anyway, I'm still hungover - I don't think I actually stopped being drunk until 2 or three hours ago. I think I'll go back to bed, and pretend that bloody John Howard didn't get re-elected as our Prime Minister.