I am a shell of a woman. I have worked eight out of the last eight days. I am averaging five hours of sleep per night. I have run out of post-it notes. And I am on my period.
If memory serves, the Union hosted a dance at the graduate student pub on Thursday night. I had a few beers and was holding up quite well—that is, until the first round of shooters arrived.
Shooters, I have decided, are evil. They usually contain liquids you would never otherwise drink, and which you would politely decline if it was socially acceptable to do so. It is not. You can no more say no to a shooter than to a gun-toting rapist, and a shooter cannot be stopped with mace. Worse, shooters beget shooters, in a vicious cycle that only ends when no one is left standing.
Without thinking, I imbibed three shots of unadulterated evil, on an empty stomach no less, and suddenly there I was: dancing like a madwoman to Men Without Hats; flirting with my delegates and random law students; and spilling sticky things on my freshly laundered dress.
I was, in other words, having fun. Loads of it.
I most assuredly did not have fun the next day, however, when I crawled out of bed after four fitful hours of sleep and realized that I was still drunk. And, dimly, that I had a speech to give to my faculty’s annual orientation meeting in an hour and a half’s time, by which point I would be retchingly hungover.
I did manage to give the speech, which may possibly have been coherent despite having been written in the back of a speeding cab. Immediately afterwards, I took the bus home and collapsed in a heap on my sofa, where I solemnly vowed never to drink shooters again.
I mean it this time.