The Morning After: Untag, Untag, Untag…

By Anonymous

I have been in a relationship for an undisclosed amount of years. It began way before college and I am entering my senior year, so you do the math. The point is: my sloppy nights have never resulted in a stranger’s face in my bed the next morning. Lucky? Probably. Boring? Maybe to some people. Safe? Most def.

I have never dealt with a disease scare or the overall fright that comes with waking up in an unfamiliar location with someone you never remember meeting. That’s not to say that I haven’t had my share of embarrassing moments. Or mornings when I looked in the mirror and asked, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Only a recent graduate of the underage club, the majority of my nights out have consisted of shimmying up my skirt to woo a bouncer, or settling for a dive bar in the middle of nowhere. On this particular night, I believe it was a Tuesday – a night when I shouldn’t have been out in the first place since I had class the next morning -  the former had not worked out and so we ended up at the latter, which in this case was a very tiny, very sketchy, Mexican food place on the Lower East Side.

We had heard that they didn’t card, which they did not. I was so excited, I got my party on. Hardcore. Three pitchers of margaritas later, I am told by friends, I was rolling on the floor yelling obscenities…in an almost empty, dive restaurant….on a Tuesday night. If this isn’t the definition of pitiful, I don’t know what is.

But the worse was yet to come. All three of my friends puked on the way home. On a crowded subway. All over themselves and each other and me. Someone’s purse ended up a trashcan and one of us had to get our coat dry-cleaned the next day under the alibi that our “little brother” had the flu.

The next morning, I could only remember fragments of the night, which, luckily, prevented me from feeling much embarrassment. I would never see any of those people again, so what happened happened.

That is until I flipped on my laptop and signed into Facebook where I was attacked by 200 pictures of myself…. on the toilet.

What could have possibly ran through my mind at this point in the night is beyond me. “Oh, I am very drunk, and at a Mexican joint. Why don’t I go into the bathroom and have a photo shoot? Great!”

There was me on the toilet, skirt down around my knees. In the sink. On the ground (ew). Kissing the paper towel dispenser. My friends periodically came and went. There I was hugging one, biting the necklace of another (wtf?!), oh and there we are  in the mirror.

By the time I had awoken from my still drunken/pounding headache slumber, cleaned puke off the kitchen floor, and finally sat down at the computer, the album had had countless views, and comments- mostly jokes at my expense. No matter how quickly I untagged them, the damage had already been done.

Oh, and when I returned to the Mexican place a week later, they remembered me as the “bathroom girl” and asked me to leave. And I did, with my head hung in shame.