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My fellow waitress buddies decided we should do something typically "Los Angelean" touristy for the night. (Vocab/grammar skills are not my forte, but hey, I'm not trying for a Pulitzer am I?) We ended up at the Saddle Ranch on Sunset boulevard. Not my usual kind of hangout that's for sure. But after several shots of Tequila, followed by enforced shots of the dreaded and vile Jaegermeister, I didn't really give two hoots where I was.
The pain of my soldier boy break up was finally starting to get a little blurry and I was determined to say "f**k it" and have some serious fun.
For those of you who aren't familiar with "Saddle Ranch", it is a stinky dive bar with a massive electronic bull in a ring, which drunk people pay to take turns attempting to ride, while a sadistic controller violently bucks and shakes them until they fall off.
The girls took turns riding it and then decided to gang up on me and convince me to have a go. I am not known for being very adventurous in terms of rides and general cheesy tourist fun, and being totally accident prone, I usually avoid ventures such as these.
Also, let me remind you, I had recently lost my job due to a chronic neck and back condition, and being thrown around on the back of a giant bull probably wouldn't be the smartest idea.
However, once again I can only blame one thing for what was about to happen... Tequila.
(I really ought to stop drinking that devil juice).
So, there I went, drunk as a skunk, riding the bull, while hanging on for dear life as to not be chucked off the damn thing. Finally I let my pride go, gave up the fight and of course came flying off into a crumpled heap on the floor.
Luckily, with the amount of booze flooding my veins, I didn't feel the pain that I would no doubt be waking up with the following morning.
After we'd all been thrown about enough for one night, we went to onto the next best cliche thing to do after a breakup and with a bunch of drunk girls.... A kareoke bar. It was there, that I decided public humiliation and shame was exactly what the doctor ordered...
I stood alone singing (well shouting) the angriest Alanis Morrisette songs known to man, while I swayed and slurred my way across the stage. Classy.
Luckily the rest of the night became quite a blur after that. However, in the morning I had flashbacks of some other deeply shameful behaviour that occurred post kareoke bar... Actually that is a lie. Who am I kidding? Tequila and Jaegar? Total blackout. Couldn't remember a thing, and it wasn't until one of my friends emailed me the bloody VIDEO she had taken of my drunken ballads and the other debauchy that followed, that pieces of the night started coming back to me. (Too shocking to even blog about)... THAT is how bad they were.
After crawling out of my shame cave and stumbling out of bed into the kitchen, sporting massive black sunglasses and having my roomate greet me good morning with a "Hey Liz" (as in Taylor). I felt it. Sudden, sharp, excruciating pain in my shoulder and wrist. Oh dear god. What had I done?
That bloody bollocky stupid bastard wanky bull ride!!!!!!
Yup, that's the price you pay for letting loose and trying to drown your emotional pain in booze.
Genius that I am, I actually managed to sprain my wrist and trap a nerve in my shoulder in the process.
Only three letters came to mind...
FML.
Hangovers are bad enough as it is. With my head pounding, my body screaming in pain and my tongue sporting it's own fur coat I crawled back into bed, downed a shit load of water and about a hundred painkillers as I prayed for sleep.
The next day was to be my 30th birthday and one thing was certain... Tequila was not going to be involved.
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