A haze of a weekend.

The past few days only exist in my mind as a drunken blur.

First up it was Elefant Traks at Beach Road with The Banana Grabbing One. I don't really recall drinking at home, or doing pear schnapps shots. How the hell we got to Bondi, having to catch a taxi to Beach Road because we had no idea where it was because the last time I was there I was sprawled on the pavement outside.

I only have vague memories of the bogans downstairs with their meat trays, or waiting for Unkle Ho and playing pool with wasted old dudes. Then some unattractive guy trying to chat me up, and completely barring him. The revolting pepper vodka during Urthboy, or Ozi Batla, who "looks like a plumber and dances like a slinky".

And suddenly we're outside eating the best felafel roll EVER and almost falling asleep in the taxi home.

Saturday morning I manage to drag myself out of bed and go to Newtown to buy a gas mask and more vodka. I buy a carrot cake that I don't eat and run into one of Boyfriend's friends who is wandering around King St in a lost and confused state, like me.

And I'm suddenly running late and I'm madly getting dressed and trying to cook up 6 chicken chippees because I'm starving.

Meet up with Vanessa and Sandra and we make it to Vyv's party. And then it's a bonfire and barbeque and vodka vodka vodka and by 8pm it feels like 10 and by 10 it feels like 1 and there's a guy with a micro penis who pushed his girfriend over (and I'm yelling at him "VIOLENCE AGAINST WOMEN... AUSTRALIA SAYS NO") and then tequila shots with dirty red salt and Vyv's mum eating the worm and then people putting a chair in the bonfire and ash throughout the entire house.

We end up going to Vegas and once there I realise how INCREDIBLY DRUNK I AM because I'm not walking so straight and everything is blurry and I'm taking photos of myself in the toilet next to scenesters doing lines of coke.

I do the smart thing and put myself in a taxi. Except I couldn't find the stairs out. I manage to barely make it home, not puke in the taxi, pull apart my entire handbag on the pavement outside my house. And then everything starts getting really messy.

I don't really remember slamming my head with Vyv's fridge door and falling over. I don't really remember smoking rank menthol cigarettes either.

But I really don't remember putting chicken chippees in the oven, then passing out in bed only to have The Banana Grabbing One waking me up 5 hours later to tell me that there's a spoonful of vegemite on the counter and that the entire house wreaks because "something incredibly fucked up" has been cooking in the oven for the past few hours at 230 degrees.

I wake up (it's 8:30am) and I'm stumbling around, avoiding water and just lying places licking my vegemite spoon. I fall asleep but I have to get up and act sober for my dad whose dropping round.

Then I force myself to go out and look at art galleries with Jim & his girlfriend, and the next thing I know I'm standing in Waterloo surrounded by warehouses and deciding it's a really good idea to walk back to Enmore. All great except that it took TWO HOURS.

And when I get home it's almost dark and there's a blackout and I'm trying to clean my room wearing The Banana Grabbing One's cave light around my head.

Then the lights come on and I'm thinking things might be better now. But then I get a sudden rush of alcohol poisoning. I won't go into the details, it's really horrific. But it's a fair call to say that my body is rejecting the rediculous amount of vodka and punch and tequila and schnapps that I drank in the past few days.

Today I wake up and I still feel wrong. I am still hungover. I once worked with a 40 yr old who told me that when you get older your hangovers get longer. Well, I'm only 23 and it's 2 days and counting. OUCH. OUCH. OUCH. OUCH. OUCH.

I am seriously considering not drinking ever ever again.