I would first like to say for good measure that just because someone gets heavily intoxicated during Thanksgiving does not mean that they have a drinking problem. Got it? Good.
Vodka is clearly not my friend, I've thrown up twice in my drinking life and both times have been to this particular strain of satan's nectar. I would have been fine if I'd just stuck with the wine all night, maybe a little hungover, but certainly nothing to write home about. However there comes a point in every drunken night where you make choices that seem perfectly logical at the time when, in fact, a small part of you is saying: that's not intelligent. Me telling someone that I was sick of wine and wanted a drink with liquor is an example of such a choice. A choice that lead to my heavy intoxication.
We'll fast-forward to the drive home where I was chiming in on the conversation of my family a little louder than I needed too, with a healthy awareness that I was quite drunk and needed to keep it under wraps. That didn't go too well since, at about the moment I got home, I began to throw up. It's an odd thing, throwing up when you're drunk - it doesn't happen like throwing up when you're sick. There's no prelude of saliva filling your mouth in the most unpleasant way. It's more innate than that; your body just knows.
After finally going to sleep I woke up hours later to find myself cradling a cup of water, a trash can, and a towel. I don't know what the towel was for, I spilled the cup of water all over myself while asleep and I think I also might have poured it in the trash can somehow. There's a liquid in there and it's not vomit....I wondered why my mother allowed me to keep such items with me while I slept; obviously, I was going to spill water all over myself and sheets. However, she later informed me that I refused to relinquish said items...great.
You wake up and look at yourself in the mirror, your smudged make up and eyes that have been through a lot stare back at you accusatorially. Your pearls from the night before are laid delicately on your dresser, you didn't take them off yourself, there's no way you could have dealt with that clasp. You have a healthy awareness of the symbolism of having your pearls removed from your neck. Your dress is in a heap next to your tights - that's a mystery. And you just look at your life, look at your choices and think: fuck, now my parents know how hard I can party.