New Year's Eve: Use Your Head, But Not This Way
For some people, New Year's Eve is the greatest night of the year. For others, it's time to stay home, solo and safe. And for a few people...well, keep reading for this epic account from Chelle, the second-place winner in our My Best/Worst New Year's Eve contest.
Twenty-two. Jungle juice. New Year’s Eve party. Guy on crutches. Told him, “Watch this!” Stole his ‘legs’ and proceeded to regress into my favorite childhood activity: Turn those puppies upside down, and you got yourself a sweet pair of stilts. I was maneuvering my way through the crowd, and looking damn good doing it, until I hit a puddle of booze on the wooden floor. I watched myself in slow motion, as though I were astroplaning, legs flying toward the heavens. Gracefully landed back-of-head first into a hallway wall corner jutting out into the open space like it was holding up a roof or something.
I jumped up, “I’m okay, muthafuckas!” Things were going great until, unbeknownst to me, the back of my melon was period-ing all over the place. I’m not sure, but it was probably the shrieking group of girls behind me that gave it away. They pushed me into the kitchen and put my whole head under running sink water. I’d spent sooo much time on my rad hair for the party…whatta travesty. But I digress. They’re all screaming “Someone take her to the ER!” I tell them, “Stop freakinggggg, I’m okaaayyyy, you’re being ridiculoussss.” One of them is crying, blah blah blah. One roll of paper towels down, drenched in blood. Two, two rolls of paper towels down. Three, three rolls of paper towels down, ah ah ah. (The count? Anyone? Whatever.) So I say, “Give it a minute to quit bleeding; I’ve been drinking my face off, my blood is super-doop thin, and it looks way worse than it is.”
Till I heard a chick in the corner, not involved in my aid, go, “Gross — you can see her skull.” Then I was like, first, fuck you, hussy, and second, take me to the hospital…and grab that bottle of Jack. ROAD TRIP!! The new and improved party gets in the car, taking shots and heading to the emergency room. Isn’t that a Kesha song? Fast-forward to the triage check-in…uhh, well, my buddy who drove there almost earned himself a one-way ticket to DUI town, and he left real quick. The rest of us piled in my li’l ER room and watched the Abercrombie model of a doc stroll in.
Word to the wise: You wanna get yourself to the front of an emergency-room line? Come drenched in blood from head to toe with a gang of screaming-ass girls with you. First thing they did was breathalyze me. I’m totally blitzed, bleeding out, and you want me blow my last conscious breath into a breathalyzer? .365 BAC, 1 point for each day of the year — how festive! (Now, before you start judging, keep in mind that we were taking shots right up to the automatic sliding doors of the hospital…still pretty good, though.) I insisted that the doc stitch around my dreads…(I told you my hair was gangster). I got 26 stitches down the back-a-me-noggin…and a couple extra nowhere near the wound ’cause I wouldn’t keep still. It was a flirty game of cat and mouse between me and my new doctor boyfriend.
Anyway, to those of you who may remember NightRide at CU…pretty good deal, eh? You call ’em up, tell ’em ya can’t get home, and they’ll take you there in a big-ass Suburban, safe and sound, free of charge. Us girls had to get back to the party somehow, duhhh. Partied till dawn. Time of my life.
I’m sober now.
For more stories of New Year's Eve, as well as listings of events around town, see our New Year's Eve 2015 Guide inserted in this week's issue of Westword.
Get the Arts & Culture Newsletter
Find out about upcoming performances, exhibitions, openings and special events happening in the Denver art and theater scene.