Classy Fail, Disaster Win

Kids, I'm only sharing this story so that you know what a terrible, awful thing an Open Bar can be and why you should never take advantage of such a situation. Getting all dolled up is fun - leave it at that.
Last night I had a ticket to a Black Tie Optional/Red Sox Attire Encourage charity dinner for a prep school in Boston. It was an all-you-can-eat-and-drink party at the EMC club at Fenway Park. It was awesome. I got all dressed up, and ate hot dogs and giant sausages. My roommate, B's, old college roommate was visiting, and did our hair and makeup. Everyone was having a great time, then B chugged a martini and some wine, vomited in the bathroom, and went home. I did, at one point, crash a photograph on the balcony that I hadn't been invited to pose in by mooning the camera through my neon pink tights, and realized afterward that the entire party could see me through the glass walls. But that was the worst of my behavior at the event. I decided to go out to a bar after the party closed down with some other friends who weren't out for the count, yet. B's very badass college roommate, who now bartends in Hawaii, found a group of cute boys (her marks, not mine) who bought us drinks, and then she schmoozed with the bartender to get us all free whiskey shots. I'm not sure why I didn't say no. Because it was free? And people kept putting it in front of my face? Eventually I started to feel a little sick, went outside to test my blood sugar, and the bouncer threw me in a cab and sent me home. It happened so fast I didn't know what to do. And B's roommate had no idea I was gone.

I fell asleep in the cab and threw up several times. I think the driver took advantage of me being asleep and turned what should have been a $10 ride into a $22 ride. When we got to my apartment, he screamed at me to pay him $100 to clean the puke out of his car. I was like "yeah, sounds cool man. If I could physically move right now, I'd give you all the money I can find." But it came out more like "mahhhhhhhhh". So he starts yelling that he's going to call the cops. I was like "I'm sure they'll be significantly more helpful than you are." I have no concept of how much time went by, but the cop finally showed up and opened the cab door. In an attempt to get out, I dove head first onto the ground and threw up some more. When the cop figured out where I live, he buzzed my roommate's boyfriend down to come get me. Because I wasn't moving, the cop kept threatening to call an ambulance and take me to the hospital. This sounded like a wonderful idea. Except when Art told the cop I was diabetic and they started discussing the possibility of me having blood sugar issues, I mustered "I'm not an idiot" and pulled out my glucometer to show them my blood sugar was fine. This indicated that I was OK to walk upstairs, even though I would have LOVED an IV drip. B was awake by this time, and she put me to bed wrapped in a towel after soaking some of the wet sand from the street and puke chunks off of me in the tub.

24 hours later, I finally feel like I'm not going to die. I took a real shower, changed my sheets, ate some meatloaf, and now I'm going back to bed, and never having more than 2 drinks ever again.

[Update] B had no idea any of this was going on. Art put me in the tub, and to bed. And apparently I sassed the cop a lot once I started using full sentences again (which was the only reason he didn't send me to the hospital) and told him my full name, address, and correct phone number. So much for not having a police record...