Thursday, March 12, 2009
I was 15 and had spent the second half the night making out with my first bona fide boyfriend on his basement couch (the first half being spent at dinner and a movie). In between swapping spit, we were swigging shots of Jose Cuervo. I was obliterated. I stumbled into the bathroom at one point and tripped over an area rug. As my entire body pitched forward toward the sink, I caught a glimpse of my long hair suspended straight up in the air. My mouth, which was about to be a canal for projectile vomit, connected with the rim of the sink. Gonk. When I stood up, bleary-eyed, my two front teeth were broken in half. Like a West Virginia meth addict's. I panicked--but only slightly. Then I puked. I walked out and showed my boyfriend my jagged smile ("loooooook!"), already crying. He had been fixing something on his drum set. He started crying immediately, saying, "You're gonna hate me!" Then he bent over the skeleton of his drum set, bared his front teeth, and smashed his face into the metal. Gonk. Half his two front teeth were gone. Now that's love.