The Time I Drunkenly Peed In Someone’s Dresser

======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ==== ======= ======= ====== ====== ====== ===== ==== ====== ====== ===== ====

It was the first day of Spring Break my junior year of college, and I was in New York City for the first time with one of my girlfriends, Emily. The train ride from the airport to Penn Station had been challenging as I had done last-minute hungover packing, and my suitcase was roughly the same size as a full-grown German Shepherd.

And this was after the shenanigans of frantically digging out a few pounds of nonsense in the middle of the check-in area to avoid spending an extra $25. That money was already fully dedicated to a cocktail at a rooftop bar, and it was only over my dead fucking body that the airline was going to take it from me.

A guy on the train was repeatedly trying to convince me to take the suitcase up a level to make room for others, but I was terrified that I would not be able to surmount this obstacle successfully due to the weight of the suitcase and would end up looking like a struggling idiot. So I just stood there frozen and stared at him blankly. “DO. YOU. SPEAK. ENGLISH???” He asked in frustration, trying once more to get me to move. I responded by continuing to stand as still as a statue without muttering a word. He gave up and moved along, and I said to myself, “What a compliment to be mistaken for a beautiful, European mute.”

When I finally got off of the train and above ground into the city, I was in heaven. It was St. Patrick’s Day, and the energy in the air was vibrational, with everyone decked out in green and having an obnoxiously good time on the street. I looked around and took it all in, experiencing that intoxicating feeling of ecstasy that people have before they actually move to New York and it beats them down into a low-grade depressed shell of themselves.

I had arrived.

Thankfully, my friend’s boyfriend picked us up and became responsible for the bane-of-my-existence suitcase, and I floated through the streets and up the stairs into his apartment, while he most likely acquired a torn rotator cuff.

He and his three roommates had a huge third-floor patio, and in New York, this is nothing short of a luxury. “Started from North Katy on the wrong side of the freeway, now I’m here,” I thought to myself proudly, the breeze blowing through my nappy hair.

It was time to celebrate.

And in college, the only way I know how to celebrate was to rip 7-10 shots of Burnett’s vodka using Redbull as a chaser. Needless to say, this has gotten me into many unbecoming situations. But this fine evening, it landed me buck-ass naked in someone’s dresser.

After drinking an ungodly amount of vodka, I would inevitably pass out after a couple of hours. On a normal college night, this perfectly suited my night-time hours of 11 p.m.-2 a.m., but day drinking was always a fucking doozy for me. I just couldn’t seem to get it right.

After a few hours of unconsciousness, I emerged from my slumber ready to party again. Instead, I came to face a sad realization. “Hey, I need to tell you something,” Emily said, which is never the start of anything good, “You peed in Simon’s roommate’s dresser.” “That’s impossible,” I laughed. What a funny gal. I was not one of those drunks that peed in random places in a state of binge-drinking-induced oblivion. I had standards.

“No… you really did. Simon and I couldn’t find you for a while. Then, we heard some crashing around in his friend’s room,” similar to when a raccoon gets into the house, “Simon walked in to find you perched on the open, bottom two drawers of his dresser in the middle of peeing all over his friend’s clothes.”

I gasped. Who was I? I didn’t even know anymore. And how many times had I done this and just not known about it? Only Buddha knows.

“We have to tell him,” I decided. “I’ll just be straight-up with him a tell him that in my delirium I mistook the open drawers for a toilet.” Being real was always the best policy. “I’m not sure that’s the way to handle this,” Emily said, “This is our first night here, and we’re going to be here for a week. What if he doesn’t take it well?”

I thought about this for a moment. There was a chance that he would appreciate my honesty and laugh it off. But there was a bigger chance that he would be, at least, disturbed to come home to a girl he barely knew trying to wholeheartedly explain away his urine-soaked undershirts and pajamas. He might even say he didn’t feel comfortable with me staying there, and I didn’t have the wherewithal at the time to navigate the uncharted waters of homelessness. I couldn’t risk it.

So I lied.

I rounded up the clothes, put them into a trash bag, and vowed to drop them off ASAP the next day to be cleaned. And when he came home, I told him that I had stumbled into his room accidentally mistaking it for a bathroom and spilled beer on the clothes in his dresser. At least half of it was true? He was a little confused that I had turned this into such an ordeal, “Well it couldn’t have been that much beer right? Don’t worry about it, I can take them to be cleaned.” “Ohhh no no no no no no, I’ve got it,” I assured him with an ingratiating smile.

I dropped off the clothes the moment I woke up the next morning and left them at the dry cleaners with a guilty look on my face but no explanation. When I returned the freshly washed and dry clothes to him, he was grateful, bless his heart, “Seriously you didn’t have to do that, Thank you.” “Please, it’s the least I could do,” I replied, “the very. very. least.”

When my boyfriend and I went on a double date with Emily and Simon last winter, about six years after the fact, we reminisced about this story and all had a good laugh, my boyfriend probably fake laughing and wondering what kind of train wreck he had gotten himself into. It turns out that they never told the poor son of a bitch– they wanted to protect him from the cruel reality of the world.

So apart from telling you guys, the internet, my secret is safe for now.

And apart from potentially peeing (still yet to be proven) on a girl’s floor after a very first date during the short month that I thought I might be into girls, I don’t think I’ve ever done it again.

But who knows, y’all? The universe is full of surprises, and who really, really knows? .

25

Respond

Email this to a friend

Hey, I saw this on Post Grad Problems. Check it out.

hannahrose

Excuse me, but I've got some shit to say. @xohannahrozay on IG and Twitter.

• @xohannahrozay
• @xohannahrozay