I started this blog/journal/confessional just over six years ago, so it goes without saying that a lot has changed in that time. Gone are the heady days of my eighteen year old self, where partying for three days straight was like water off a duck’s back. These days you can find me passed out in a corner while the party continues around me. Of course, I’m ageing gracefully.
I recently took a trip to Dubai as I have family over there and fancied a nice, sunny break from the bleak reality of the UK. It just so happened that my visit coincided with one of my favourite DJs playing a day party on the beach, which made the trip just that little bit sweeter. Dubai is known for its lavish, luxury lifestyle but I hadn’t quite comprehended a) how extravagant it would be and b) that I would not have to pay for a single drink, as long as I continued to be afforded the privilege of owning a vagina on my body, which it turns out, wasn’t and still isn’t planning on going anywhere soon.
Surrounded by mostly lovely, but shamelessly conceited people taking endless selfies of themselves, I was quite pleased my vag-owning body had given me the luxury of a table full of never-ending bottles of Belvedere, Cafe Patron and Cristal to numb the pain of feeling like a badly made sausage next to a parade of Miss Essex entrants – I can say that because I’m from Essex. Before I knew it, the sun had set and closing time had rolled around. Obviously I was not done yet, despite at this point only being able to focus on things with one eye open. Navigating my way to the ‘afterparty’, I sunk a few more drinks before heading off with some strangers to another bar, sneaking one for the road into the taxi and downing another one before I even got into it.
It’s safe to say that I was absolutely hammered by the time we reached the third bar of the evening. I drank a shot of sambuca and a double vodka, lime and soda, just to cement how fucked I was, and toddled off with my new friends to an apartment one of them was living in. From here on in, it’s a hazy blur of chainsmoking on the balcony and guzzling more vodkas, then my mind went dark and then I woke up.
When I opened my eyes, I looked around and noticed I was in unfamiliar territory. I looked down and realised my phone was dead and I had been sleeping on a really thin mattress on the floor. A memory popped into my head, ‘you laid down here last night…’. I got up and scoped out the house, walking into bedrooms and excusing myself, before I finally found the toilet – I actually managed not to throw up, surprisingly. When I came out, I looked down and realised a note had been placed on the inside of my phone cover. It read:
“We tried waking you up, like we were literally shaking you, but you somehow have not woken up (how??) so we’ve gone home, but let us know when you wake up and get home safe”
Anyone who has stayed in Dubai will know that most of the apartments have receptionists at the entrance. As I stumbled out and hid my face from the gaggle of people at the front desk, I knew they thought I’d done a lot worse than pass out on the floor. When I finally got back to my apartment, my dad asked, “where have you been?”. At that moment, I didn’t know if it was worse to say that I had met a boy or I go so drunk I slept on the floor, so I went for the classic teenage line of “out”. Nailed it.