Have you ever been 19, walking the streets of Harlem in 5 inch heels clutching a gold switchblade? I have. Let’s set the scene: I was freshly 19 years old, headed to meet a guy I was seeing. Let’s call him Trevor (because that’s his name). Trevor had been given the duty of taking me to a “surprise party” at my New York City apartment that my friends were throwing me. I was dressed to the nines in a tight as all hell white dress under which I had thrown on two bras (a trick a girlfriend of mine showed me that, to be fair, do make your boobs look incredible), and a pair of Spanx that were cinching my waist in the most uncomfortable, yet sexy way. All of that was below deck, though, and on the outside I looked like a fox, if I may be so bold as to speak for the leering men who yelled obscenities and followed me down the street.
The night started off well enough; I grabbed an Uber on my way to meet Trevor so he could shuffle me off to my party. I got to the dorms where he lived and knock knock knocked on his door. He opened it and my heart sank. There were two other guys there — his best friend and his brother. Trevor seemed confused as to why I was there. At the time I thought I had miscommunicated something but it turns out Trevor is simply a piece of shit. I reminded him about my party to which he replied “Well, my friends are here and they want to get drunk.” “Yeah…a party is great for that” I replied as the three boys exchanged glances. “Yeah…I don’t think we’re gonna go.” Trevor said, matter-of-factly. Side-note: Can you believe I went on to date this guy for 3 years? His personality never changed!! Swear to god! I stood there, dumbfound, for about 15 seconds and then said “Okay!” and left.
Deciding I needed some fresh air I skipped the train and walked the 20 blocks between Trevor’s dorm and my apartment. I can’t remember ever feeling as angry as I did in that moment. I was in cat-call country and was in absolutely no mood to be ogled, so I pulled out a gold switchblade — a very thoughtful gift from my best friend, Marley, switched up the blade, and stomped in those high heels back to my apartment. Ladies, listen up! The switchblade works! Just don’t run into a cop.
I reached my party, feet bloody, full of rage, and the switchblade still very much in play. I took a few deep breaths before entering, knowing that my Xanax prescription was just beyond the door, and walked into my apartment to a chorus of “SURPRISE!” It was all extremely thoughtful. All of my friends were there, as well as some randos who had tagged along. Everything was set to be a fun night.
You know what they don’t tell you when you get a Xanax prescription? If you pop 3 Xanax and then angrily take down 4 vodka-cranberries in 15 minutes, honey you’re going to black out. What? I wanted the feeling of intense anger for this boy to just go away! To this day it is the only time in my life I have blacked out — but what better time to do so than your own birthday party?
There have been stories told for years about that party and tales of my blackout from just about everyone there. Apparently I grabbed a bottle of vodka out of a friend’s hands and just chugged. Apparently I climbed out on my fire escape in stilettos and had to be dragged back in through my bedroom window. Apparently I locked myself in my bathroom for 45 minutes and had to be apprehended using a metrocard to unlock the door. Apparently (well, not really apparently because I have the photos) I passed out in my bed and my friends used my corpse as a recreation of a Sleeping Beauty photoshoot, rose included. But the most harrowing realization of the evening would come the next morning.
I came out of my blackout very briefly while Marley was undressing me and putting me to bed, then it was back to lights out. I woke up the next morning to no hangover (God bless that 19 year old stomach). However, upon grabbing my phone I noticed something unusual. Something very, very wrong. It was a 43 minute phone call with (who else but) Trevor. I had absolutely no memory of even 1 minute of this phone call, let alone the 43 minutes we allegedly spoke. I texted to apologize and got no response. I went to his dorm room to try to talk about it (yeah, yeah, I was in love and obsessed get over it). He didn’t talk to me for a week, and although we ended up in a toxic relationship for 3 years after that he never told me what I said on that phone call. All of this to say, party girls: don’t mix your benzos with alcohol and don’t let men rule your life.