My Magic Eight Ball costume cost me three dollars. I cut a white circle and black eight out of remnant pieces of felt from the fabric store, glued them together, and pinned the whole thing to a black sweater. I sat at the dining room table with the toy Magic Eight Ball I received as a stocking stuffer a few years ago and copied as many answers as I could onto little strips of paper which I stuffed into the pockets of my jeans. I wasn't expecting to win Best Costume, but I thought it was a fun idea. And I didn't win Best Costume, instead I won Most Original. My reward was a cheap ribbon and the worst hang-over I've had since my 21st birthday.
Not only did I drink way too much, but all night I had people coming at me from all sides, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me like a rag doll. Most of the guys wanted to know if they would win a match in Beer Pong, and most of the girls wouldn't say their questions out loud. And let me tell you, girls are mean, because if they didn't like the answer, they would say "Uh uh. I don't like that," and shake me again for a different result. Let's just say most of my senses were gone by midnight, my homemade costume fell apart by 2am, and I was passed out on the floor by 4am.
My excuse for the drunkenness is a) I almost never drink and therefore can't hold my alcohol, b) When I do drink I can never remember to eat enough food to battle the alcohol, and c) All of that damn shaking!
What cracks me up about the whole ordeal is my thought processes. With each trip to the bathroom through the night, I would look at my reflection in the mirror, and I remember realizing on the 5th trip or so that I was looking worse and worse each time. My eyes were drooping more, my skin was more pale, and more and more hair was falling from the pony tail I pulled it back in. I remember freaking out at one point because I didn't feel like myself. I felt like I had been possessed by this crazy person who was holding the real, mousy Katie captive. I also remember quietly yelling at myself because, even drunk, I couldn't stop thinking in journal entries. I was observing and documenting everyone else's behavior as if I would write about it later. Of course, I didn't document it very well because I can't remember any of it nearly 24 hours after, only that I was doing it. My favorite though, was catching a single line from Death Cab for Cutie's Crooked Teeth: "You're so cute when you're slurring your speech." I'd never heard the song before, in fact I was convinced at the time that it was The Postal Service, but that single line woke me from my stupor long enough to walk over to Jon and give him a big bear hug for thinking that I was so cute because I was drunk and slurring my speech.
I spent pretty much all of today in bed, mentally kicking myself for taking it too far. My brother, who held the party, told me this afternoon that he and his girlfriend have been finding my little strips of paper in random places all over the house. At some point I stopped putting them back in my pockets and just dropped them on the floor, apparently. I had a great time, but now I'm feeling like maybe, just maybe, I'm getting too old for this.
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