Wednesday, August 30, 2006

Lychee Martinis and Me

Over a year ago I was with an old friend who makes every night as memorable as she can with clouds of boisterous conversation and a generous endless flow of alcohol. After a few sips of my first drink, a second comes flying down the bar with my name on it. “For me?” I question with false modesty, but then accept the poisonous gift under my wing to save for later. The night went on like this until I found myself 3 or so lychee martinis later and violently puking in my friends boyfriends shiny new car. I just cannot drink the way she can.

To this day I cannot even say the word lychee without a lump the size of, well a lychee, forming in my throat and a gag begins to creep up like a slowly overflowing toilet, disgusting and scary.

So it is fitting that last night I was out with a bunch of people and a martini glass was broken at the table we were at. I assume it happened as a result of some expressive hand flailing. It happened fast, glass went in a few directions and I felt something hit me in the nose. Then I saw the little flesh colored slightly obscene looking fruit lying there on the table, perfectly intact. The blood began to emerge from the slice that was taken out of my nose by the flying glass. I am fine, but it was awkward. I went home.

Those damn lychee martinis and I just dont mix.

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