After a night out at The Boot, I feel an urge to text an old hookup to come meet me and my friends. He refuses to come out and drink with us, so we settle on him picking me up from the bar. His black BMW pulls up, and my gay best friend walks me to him.  

“Hey, I have her location and she’s my best friend. Remember that,” he tells him, trying to be threatening.  

We drive to his house, about 5 minutes away. Next thing I know, we’re hooking up on his bed. He and I hadn’t seen each other since before the New Year, so it was a friendly reunion.  

As we’re hooking up, I feel the cheap vodka coming back up. Without any warning, I sit up, hop off him and throw up all over his floor. Uncontrollably, I keep projectile vomiting across his nice hard-wood floor from the perch of his bed. As I attempt to examine the vomit, I fall off of his bed, naked, into the puddle.  

I feel so bad for F-ing up his floor. “Dude, I promise I’ll Venmo you for this mess. Dude, just let me Venmo you.” I’m not sure what price he could have given me or what the money would even go towards, but I tend to throw money at awkward problems such as these.  

He helps me up and ushers me into his shower. He then turns on the water and leaves me alone, closing the door behind himself.  

I proceeded to take the saddest, most awkward shower of my life.  

I come out after unsuccessfully washing the vomit out of my hair. I ask to stay over — obviously ready for round two — because I feel I’ve had a proper “reset.” He refuses, rightfully so, and drives me home.  

Wet hair and all, we get into his car, and I go on aux. Blasting my favorite song “Clarity” by Zedd, I sing at the top of my lungs and tap to the beat on the dash, he just smiles and laughs — whether at me or with me, I don’t care.  

Even after all this, he kisses me goodbye and goodnight.