Last night I made a lot of terrible choices. This isn’t even a drunk story. I wish it was a drunk story. That way, I would be able to excuse myself from the things I did last night. “Yeah, yeah,” I’d say, waving my hands in front of the mouths of forlorn friends, “I was drunk, though. Drunk Erin doesn’t have a lot of hindsight so she just kind of does whatever. It’s fine.” But no. I can’t excuse how bad I was at being an adult last night. No exceptions. Just regrets.
I was already tired from hosting an event at the bookstore, so I figured the best way to make my life miserable was to do the complete opposite of everything I needed to do, which was go home, have a healthy dinner, and get extra sleep before my staff meeting at 8:30 the following day. Instead of doing any of these things, I went to Spacebar and distracted myself with beer and Galaga for a solid hour, then I took myself to see Star Trek, skipping dinner, of course.
(Star Trek, by the way, was completely mediocre. I have a running theory that I am, once again, set adrift to sail to the “Island of Misfit Hipsters Who Don’t Like Things Hipsters are Supposed to Like” because the entire movie was like, “PREDICTABLE PLOT TWISTS” and “EXPLOSIONS/COOL GRAPHICS/SOUND IN SPACE” and “SPOCK DOESN’T HAVE FEELINGS BUT HE DOES” and “EVERYTHING ALWAYS WORKS OUT AND THERE ARE NO EMOTIONAL OR PHYSICAL CONSEQUENCES.” I get that it’s Star Trek. I get it. But I still wanted more from it, like what I took away from the first film where characters were emotionally conflicted beyond what was going on externally around them and not every scene with dialog was committed to clever witticisms that winked at the original show. I digress.)
As I sat in the theatre, alone, taking up one seat with my greasy, oil-soaked popcorn and another with my purse. Couples scrambled to find seats next to each other. I did not budge. I did not even twitch my arm in the direction of my purse to see if I could make extra room. This was my date night. Not yours. Mine.
I shoved another fistful of popcorn in my mouth aggressively in their direction. My stomach was beginning to hurt from all the grease. I ignored it.
The movie ended at 11:35 exactly. I had to be up in less than eight hours for the meeting, so I went straight home. By then, the popcorn had congealed into a concrete block at the pit of my stomach, and I knew it would only get worse if I didn’t eat something.
At this point, I had already made the mistake of consuming gross theatre popcorn and beer within hours of each other and depriving myself of the sleep I knew I needed. The last thing I wanted to do was prepare an entire meal for myself at midnight. I was conflicted. I opened the freezer and saw a crumpled, mostly empty bag sitting alone in the far left corner. Pizza rolls it was.
Ignoring the obvious freezer burn, I shoved about 15 rolls in my toaster oven. 25 minutes later I pulled them out, but they looked flat and deflated. The brick in my lower intestine hardened even more and my stomach made a sad, drone-y type of noise. It transcended a growl. It was more of a cry for help. A, “please, don’t, but do” kind of noise. I threw some hot sauce on and called it good. Everything can be fixed with Frank’s Red.
About a half an hour after eating the pizza rolls in bed, I started to feel nauseous. “Noooo,” I said to myself as I clutched my cat for comfort. “This isn’t going to happen.” Marlowe blinked back at me and casually hopped off the bed, leaving me alone to suffer.
I managed to fall asleep for about an hour before I woke up and projectile vomited spicily all over my bedroom floor. This continued for about four hours throughout the night. I poisoned myself. Almost knowingly. Out of laziness. I am an adult woman who actually poisoned herself with old pizza rolls that were obviously not safe to eat and greasy popcorn I didn’t even enjoy.
I contemplated not coming to the meeting, but I was so amazed at how terrible I was at living in those 10 hours that I forced myself to get up and try to feign adulthood by doing the responsible thing. My stomach started to settle by the time I got in the shower. Everything was going to be okay.
But here I am, at 2:30 in the afternoon, sitting here with a stomach ache and droopy eyes, reliving last night with absolute mortification. And the best part is I could have kept it to myself. I could have told no one. It would have been my embarrassing secret, but I think the internet needs to know that I, in fact, do not have a single shit together. Not. a single. shit.