Day 7 - Dear Carmel - I remember the party...

In all our non-fiction work there are the good and the bad topics.  There are the topics you might prefer to avoid and the topics you feel compelled to tell the world.  I'm guessing most of us all have memories of things we are less proud of than others; and this is reminiscent to my next memory journal topic of  'I remember the party.'  This story makes me smile as I recall the shenanigans I got up to, I hope you enjoy my recollection.

Dear Carmel,

I remember the party, the long awaited and anticipated thirtieth birthday party of a work-colleague Jess. The Moulin Rogue theme had guests frantically sourcing the short sexy flapper dresses, the kind that hung well above the knees and talked up every male of legs and fishnet stockings.  The high heels and plumped-up hair styles, the bright lippy worn pursing cigarette holders and hands hidden beneath the rough sequins of elbow-length gloves  heightened our enthusiasm for a good night.
  Pre-dinner drinks were planned.  Stashed in a green Coles shopping bag were six bottles of Vodka and raspberry purchased earlier that morning, now waiting just as eagerly as I to get the party started.  If I were to tell you I'm not a big drinker would be to lead you slightly astray.  We're saving ourselves a few dollars drinking before we get there, ten dollars a pop I'm told.  I swig the first bottle of sweet sugary alcohol, it washes down easily.  I'm pacing myself, a bottle every fifteen minutes will see our departure time, the time we arrive for the real party, the real swing of occasions. 
  We all sat around the round dining table, sharing seats where there weren't enough for all our bums.  Laughter filled every living space while the clanks of half-empty bottles and glasses filled our ears, heightening our senses for a good time.  Someone broke out the shots, real Vodka, straight-up. Every small shot-glass sent the silky warm liquid burning deep down into the Esophagus leaving my head swirling with dizziness. 
  I don't recall much of the car trip to the venue where the Moulin Rogue partyer's had begun hours ago.  As I fell out of the car, my legs refused to lead me along the footpath,  instead I was fossicking around at ground level, legs bent, displaced as I scrambled for the black cigarette-holder I had dropped.  I was carried into the party like a footballer gets carried off the field, someone on either side holding me up, preventing my knees from crumbling beneath this hysterical misdemeanour.   Eye's were watching me, head's  turning, whispering and tongues wagging as I stood helplessly as the wall my only saviour temporarily held me-up before my early departure.
  I missed the party, I missed the celebrations.  Sprawled-out, my body convulsing,  I was heaving fountains of liquid as though possessed.  The night was over.  There outside and propped-up like a rag doll, I painted  the gutter with unsightly un-welcome, encouraging an occasional hoot from a passing car as my only acknowledgement before putting an end to the night's proceedings.