The night I met the guy that I’ve referred to as Billy, I couldn’t keep my alcohol down. Not because I was vomiting — but because I was retarded. First, as we were dancing, I received a text message. I had been holding my Malibu Bay Breeze and my iPhone in one hand. When I saw my screen light up, I turned my wrist to get a better view of the message. In doing so, a little thing called gravity kicked in and half of my drink spilled out of my cup and onto the floor. Or what I thought was the floor.
No. I spilled half my drink on this guy’s foot. FML. We both looked down and back up at each other slowly. Me, with my jaw dropped.
“I am so sorry,” I said, and ran over to the bar to get a napkin for him.
A half hour later, I did it again. At that point, I contemplated just walking away in shame without saying a word. He laughed it off again, and said it was okay. An hour after that, I told Billy that I wanted to say hi to my friends, and that I’d meet him at the bar. My brother asked me to throw out his cup — which consisted of ice and about two ounces of a watered down drink. I walked over to the bar excited to tickle the back of Billy’s neck when the condensation from the drink caused it to completely slip out of my hand.
I watched in shock as the plastic cup hit the floor, and all of the ice and water and bounced out of it, and landed on the back of Billy’s feet and ankles. He looked down at his feet, shook his head, and looked back up at the bartender.
A moment later, I was standing next to him, laughing so hard that I was silently crying.
“You’re back. What?” he asked.
Silence. I couldn’t even speak.
“What?” he tried a second time. Then he thought for a moment. “Wait a second, was that you?”
I nodded my head yes.
I continued nodding, with tears streaming down my cheeks.
“I’m so sorry!” I finally managed to get out, while still in hysterical fits of laughter.
As I said this, Billy took a shot of SoCo and lime. All of a sudden, he puffed out his cheeks and lurched forward. Was this dude about to projectile vomit?
“Are you okay?” I asked, touching his left arm, and backing away. Oh my God, he is going to projectile vomit. Please not on me, please not on me.
After a solid ten seconds of me praying that I didn’t have to shave all of my hair off, he finally started coughing. It turned out that he wasn’t throwing up at all, I had inadvertently made him laugh just as he was drinking, and he swallowed the shot instead of spitting it all over the bar. That move, however, stifled his breathing (which is why he looked like death — because he was dying).
“Don’t you know the universal sign for choking?!” I asked him. “It’s this!” and I put both of my hands over my throat and bugged my eyes out (I’m sure I looked real attractive). “I would have helped you if I’d have known!”
“You mean instead of diving away from me, like you did?” he said, smirking. “Besides, what, was I going to do that in the middle of a crowded club and look like an idiot?” he responded.
“Yes! – when alternative is death!”
“It was your fault, anyway,” he said, laughing. “If you didn’t spill your 15 drinks on me I wouldn’t have laughed in the first place.”
So true. I really have to start not ruining the shoes of the guys I like. Sometimes it can turn deadly.
Ever spill something on someone you liked? Ever get spilled on? What happened?