Gin - My Evil Nemesis Part II. Since Stair Crawl Vomit Fest Circa 1994, I avoided gin with the gusto of a scorned woman. Occasionally we'd meet at parties, I see him, then run the other way or enjoy myself a little too much with a vodka cranberry or jack and coke. Yep, gin was snubbed and this continued with near a thought in my head until moving to San Francisco in November 2004. It seems that my one good friend in the town, Grant, was a lover of the gin and tonic. Not one to dwell on past relationship disasters, I stayed the path of the righteous - tequila, whiskey, vodka and beer (oh my!). However, one evening at Grant's apartment, with no other liquor to be consumed, I had my first gin and tonic after a 10 year absence. It was good, not the same of course, but old familiar feelings were there. I perhaps enjoyed his company three or five times after that, with nary an ill feeling. Friends again! But just friends. There would be no more consumption to drunkenness - I learned my lesson, or so I thought. This brings me last Friday, St. Patrick's Day. I had to work, but that evening I went out for my St. Patty's Day meal, chicken tikki masala. Personally I feel the eating of a boiled dinner or the wearing of green on St. Patty's is pretty much amateur hour. You are not to eat and wear green, you are to be blurry eyed on whiskey and beer. My first drink of the evening was a Heineken. In hindsight, this was my first misstep. As a girl of Irish descent, and one who likes the cocktail, there is a mantra set in stone - liquor beer, never fear; beer, liquor never sicker. And on a day like St. Patty's where drinks would be consumed like virgins at a sacrifice, I should have had liquor to begin. I blame the Polish in me. So, after dinner and my one beer there was a journey to a bar - 2 shots of jameson, 3 beers (bud) and then to a party that was touted as a St. Patty's Day Homewarming Birthday Bash. And yes, it was as gay as it sounds, almost as much the two guys swallowing each other's tonsils on the couch to the left of where I sat in distain drinking beer - 1 redtail, 3 pabst - while touting the day as worst St. Patty's eva. Contemplating how it was that I could even see straight on this day of debauchery when the hour was approaching 1:00 a.m., relief was found in the form of Grant wanting to leave. So off to the Irish bar Finnegan's Wake. Finally among my own - the drunk, slurring and incapable of cohesive thought, home. I had another shot of Jameson and 2 more beers. For those keeping tabs: 3 shots Jameson and 7 beers. Then last call came, and not one to stop the madness of the snake master's day - nightcap! I sat on Grant's couch waiting for my drink where I was offered the choice of brandy or tanqueray. For those not alcoholically inclined, Tanqueray is gin. Since I am neither 65 nor a man, I choose the gin without any worry in my head, for we were friends once again. Two gins and tonics and drunkenly conversed out, I headed home. This is where my recollection is a tad bit foggy. I took a taxi home, entered the apartment, and from evidence gathered in the morning (clothes strewn, facial wash out), went to the bathroom. Then upstairs not sure if there was any stair clutching, because like all drunks with a foggy memory, it is best not to question the person who loves you and show them how close to rock bottom you truly are, but I was told drunkest ever. And truth be told, I was sort of disappointed there was no sash, beer case crown and ceremony the next day, but this woe I will suffer. What I do remember, is the visit to the bathroom, and I fondly remember the tikki chicken masala. Oh, how I remember it, especially the next day when my pillow was a lovely yellowy orange. And who do I blame for all of this? Gin. Oh sure, you could say 7 beers, 3 shots of Jameson, but I am not one who pukes the joys of an evening had, I am one to just float away to sleep in a haze so this leaves Gin. Evil, vile, son of a bitch, Gin. I equate this entire experience to the Revenge Fuck. Gin fucked me over, and fucked me over good. He gave me a taste of the normal, and then tricked me into bed again. And once again I laid strewn on the bathroom floor, my head on the cool porcelain, my insides being roller coastered 100 mph through my mouth. So the lesson learned is quite simple, never be friends with an old flame. It only leads to misery.