To take a break from the “oh my god my job sucks and my soul is dying every day” posts, I thought I’d share one of the many awkward and downright painful (on multiple levels) stories from my life. I usually reserve it for first or second dates to make the person run screaming. But today I will share it with the internet. Enjoy.
On my twenty-fifth birthday, the guy I was dating at the time (we’ll call him Curt) decided to throw me a surprise birthday shindig. No one had ever thrown me a party, much less a surprise one for my birthday and I thought it was super sweet. (Except that my friends know they can’t keep secrets from me so they stopped talking to me after they received the invites to not spoil the surprise and I thought everyone was mad at me for some unknown reason).
We meet everyone for dinner (where I was surprised at the restaurant). I had also never gone out drinking for my birthday (I know, I was quite sheltered) so Curt and his friends made it their mission to get me hot mess white girl wasted. They succeeded. I drank a lot at the restaurant (I love fruity drinks) and then we went to a club where I was fed shot after shot.
Normally when I drink, I handle my alcohol quite well but I usually know how much I can drink and aren’t being handed shots every two seconds.
Anyways, I remember walking into the bathroom of the club. That door served as the end of my consciousness. I remember nothing after that…
Fast forward to the next morning. I wake up, not remembering anything of the night before except walking into the bathroom. I’m hungover for the first time in my life-my brain is seriously trying to escape through my face. I move to get up to go to the bathroom and feel a stabbing pain in my big toe. I move the blanket to see that it’s wrapped…in toilet paper.
I think nothing of it, maybe I just stubbed it on the nightstand again and drunkenly wrapped it for no apparent reason. I go to the bathroom (and my toe is a raging pain) and see blood and a pair of needle nose pliers on the floor…
My first thought, ‘oh my god, I pulled a tooth out.’ I check my mouth, all teeth are accounted for and still attached. Then in a sudden flash of memory (though I wish I didn’t remember it) I remember what happened when we got home the night before.
At the club I was wearing strappy sandals. Someone had dropped a beer bottle that shattered on my foot and filled my sandal with glass. On top of that someone had done a Mexican hat dance on my toe, causing the nail to slightly detach. Emphasis on slightly-it was still attached to me.
We get home and my genius (heavy sarcasm here) Curt thought for some reason that unless he removed the toenail I was going to just instantly die. He could have just wrapped it (I asked the doctor what he should have done later).
So, Curt, being a genius, chases my drunk ass around our apartment with a pair of pliers. He gets me cornered in the bathroom, because, really, there’s only so many places to run in an apartment. I’m sitting in the bathtub and he has my foot in one hand, pliers in the other. I punch him in the face but being only a foot apart didn’t get enough oomph behind it to deter him from his bloody mission.
He swiftly grabs the toenail and rips. I was blackout drunk and can still vividly remember the pain and screaming. (Why didn’t our neighbors call the cops? I’m pretty sure it sounded like I was being ax murdered). I’m also sure that this is a form of torture recognized in the Geneva Conventions.
He then proceeds to “doctor” my wound but instead of Neosporin he puts steroid ointment meant for allergic skin reactions on the toe and wraps it in toilet paper. This means the next morning I have to wash this stuff off the toe and pick pieces of the toilet paper out of the wound. I also have to use the pliers still handy on the floor to pull out the shards of glass embedded in the bottom of my foot from the broken beer bottle.
Thankfully no permanent physical damage is done-my toenail grows back in six months. However, I won’t wear open toe shoes in public anymore nor can I stand anyone to touch or get close to my feet. I used to really enjoy pedicures but some of the tools look too much like pliers to be close to my toes.
My friends and I now refer to this incident as “the toenail birthday.” But I learned. I will never again get that drunk nor date anyone that completely stupid. Or wear open toe shoes to a club.