Thursday, May 24, 2012

sick.


Did I ever tell you about the time my boyfriend came to my house after having spent the day drinking with his friends? Let’s pretend my boyfriend’s name was Peter. My mother was away and we had the house to ourselves. I wanted kisses and cuddles and maybe some eroticism but Peter wasn’t able to remain conscious. Wonderful. He fell asleep on the couch while I watched Sex and the City. After about twenty minutes, he stirred. I was just about to scold him for being a crap boyfriend and an even worse house guest, when he erupted. An ocean of vomit hit the linoleum floor. He lay back down. I was stunned.

The sick was watery and covered almost every inch of the floor. I snapped into action. At the time, I was going through something of a love affair with newspapers. My heart broke at having to use my beloved copies of the Irish Independent to mop up the bile and cider and chicken that had poured from my boyfriend’s lovely mouth. I put Peter in the bathroom and instructed him to direct his flow at the toilet bowl, while I cleaned the sitting room. When the lino was free of the mass of the vomit, I started on Mr Muscle and Domestos and didn’t finish scrubbing until I was sure the sitting room was free of the sour smell of Peter’s stomach contents. Peter wasn’t even supposed to be in the house, let alone desecrate it.

I spent the next hour on the phone to my best friend, ranting and complaining about my useless boyfriend. When I returned to Peter in the bathroom, I found him slumped and asleep over the toilet bowl. I set up the Z-Bed mattress in the hall and put him to bed. I didn’t want him sleeping in my bed – I’d only just changed the sheets and he smelled like debauchery. But as he started to sober up and return to reality, he wanted kisses and cuddles and I obliged. (Remember how I needed his approval?) And next thing, we were in my bed and my clean sheets were no longer clean and I was still mad but I wasn’t mad at him anymore – I was mad at myself.

That was four years ago. Bizarre things like that happen to me on average once a fortnight. Other nightmares include arguing while drinking cider, sleeping with the wrong people, fainting in the supermarket and having to go to A&E, being insulted by Dylan Moran … The list is non-exhaustive.  If you ever talk to me and ask me if I have any news, rest assured that the answer will be yes.

Image from Hanging Rock Comics. (Click through for source!)

4 comments:

  1. I want to hear the Dylan Moran story??

    Also what a poor boyfriend :( your lovely sheets ruined :(

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    Replies
    1. I shall tell you the Dylan Moran story when I next see you! :) x

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  2. This wasn't me thank god pour you :(

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    Replies
    1. It could have been worse - he might have pooped on my bed! :)

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