Nails, Mama Cat, and Squirting Blood

Two years ago I went out drinking with co-workers. I got home around 5 and struggled to get undressed to pass out in my bed. I don't remember much, but my leg must have been stuck in my pants because I was hopping around, trying to kick the pants off. I hopped and stumbled for a bit, kicking off the pants, and then inevitably fell down. I hit the ground right near a tall mirror that I had propped against a wall. A screw in the floor held the mirror in place and prevented it from sliding down the wall. When I fell, my right knee landed directly on the head of the screw, and it went up into my knee, right under the kneecap. The head must have been tilted sideways, so the thin edge faced up. I don't know.

The injury would have been excruciating for any sober person, but I was plenty liquored up and managed to fall asleep fine. I doubt I treated the injury whatsoever, not even by wrapping a t-shirt around it, because I woke up with blood on my sheets-nothing makes a man sad like waking up alone with blood on the sheets. The next morning I couldn't bend my leg. I didn't go to the hospital all day, choosing instead to laze away on the couch.

When I woke up the following day, and still couldn't walk, I went to Beth Israel in the city the next day and told the nurse what happened. She was disappointed in me--both because of what happened and because I had waited a day to be treated, which meant it was too late to get stitches. She gave me a tetanus shot and said "You're not gonna get tetanus. No one really gets it in the US." So that was comforting.

The nurse sent me home with a supremely uncool hospital-issued cane. Now the mirror leans against a different wall in my room and, turns out, it stays there fine without a screw or anything else holding it in place.

One drunken night, I walked to a bar with my ex-boyfriend, and he suggested I stay at his place. Like any good cat lady, I immediately thought of my cat, Mama Cat. Who would take care of her? My ex could practically read my mind: "Don't worry," he said. "We can leave out some food first for Sasha."

"Sasha… Sasha… I know that name…" I thought. But Sasha wasn't the name of my cat.

"Who is Sasha?!" I demanded.

"Sasha… Oh fuck, I mean Mama Cat." he admitted.

I knew how I knew that name. Sasha was the name of his ex-girlfriend's cat. He had called my cat by his ex-girlfriend cat's fucking name.

My drunk blood boiled, and there was only one thing to do. Boom! I smacked him right in the eye.

I was booked to host an event at a strip club in Baltimore. I usually don't drink much, but the booker persistently asked me to drink. He said the strip club would pay for our dinner before the event, so we went to a fancy restaurant, and the driver stayed with us. We ate and downed a few bottles of wine, and then we crashed a Bat Mitzvah. We got kicked out and went to the strip club, where the booker forced me to take multiple shots and get my photo taken drinking the house champagne. We left, and the booker ate my pussy in the cab while the cab driver watched.

Next on our tour of Baltimore, the booker took me to an "underground tranny bar" (his words). The bar lacked a liquor license, so the bartender served vodka in Gatorade bottles. I befriended a cross-dresser and gave him all my bracelets. At around 5 AM, we returned to my hotel. The booker finger-fucked me so hard--I wouldn't let his dick touch my vagina--he hurt my vagina and I squirted blood. Twice.

The hotel kicked us out of the room, and then the driver took me to the airport (late by the way). As he dropped me off, he told me the strip club never told the booker they'd pay for three dinners. The booker claimed he was broke and the club would fire him unless I paid $200, so I just gave the booker the money. He probably scammed me, but I was drunk, confused and wanted to get on a plane and never see Baltimore again.