Hung. (Over?)

This morning, I opened my sleepy eyes to find myself sprawled on my bed, still wearing my cocktail dress from the night before, with a menacing headache, busted knee from (I GUESS) falling down at some point last night, lipstick smeared on my pillow, and my jewelry thrown about the room in the most careless manner than only told me one thing... I got so shitfaced last night.

It started off innocently enough. I met my friend, Chicago Dude, at 4pm to watch the England vs France rugby match at a local Aussie bar. For some reason, I thought it would be a grand idea to start drinking at noon, so I showed up at the bar with having already drank about half a bottle of Californian Cabernet Sauvignon. Watch out, boys, here comes a one classy girl!

I looked good but I imbibed a lot throughout the night. In fact, I am kind of afraid to log into my banking account and check the statement after last night, since I keep finding random receipts in my purse and on my table (and even one in my bed!), showing me, continuously, withdrawing money and charging my card for all the "beverages" I've consumed.

I ended up at Le Noir, a premier night club for professional partiers somewhere between ten and midnight, where I ran into The Banker's friend.

"Hey, L, what are you doing here? Where's your boy?" he asked me, while eyeing the Chicago Dude up and down.

Great. Every time I ran into The Banker's friend, I'm with another guy.

"I think, he's at a wedding! I'm gonna see him tomorrow!" I screamed, surely while holding a glass full of Chardonnay, so that The Banker's friend could hear me over the deafening pounds of the latest David Guetta remix.

I'm not sure if he believed me. But, hey, at that point I was beyond the point of caring.

I proceeded to drunkenly text various people with nonsentical syllables. I texted my coworker a letter L. I texted another friend with a simple "why??", which, I'm sure, she will ask me about on Monday. I texted The Banker as well. I guess, for him I gathered my last bits of sanity, because that text actually made sense to me this morning when I reread it, while trying to retrace the last night's steps.

"I miss you!" it said, plainly and vulnerably, but I was relieved that I could show him a bit of my feelings without worrying whether or not he's going to hurt me in the end.

But the best part of the night, of course, was me losing the Chicago Dude somewhere in the crowd at another night club, dancing with Some Guy on the dance floor and then following him to his VIP table, and then, somehow, making out with the said guy. A lot.

I mean, continuously making out throughout the night.

I mean, I don't even have the slightest clue about who he is, how old he is, or even what his name is.

Like I said, I got so shitfaced. And, to sum it all up, I don't think being shitfaced is a good look for me. Alls I hope for is that my late night makeout session was not recorded by the innocent bystanders who just might retell the story to The Banker.

I'm single. But still. I really like my smokingly-gorgeous, strikingly intellegent Banker and I don't wanna lose him all because of the dude whose face I wouldn't be able to recognize if I saw him today.