Part 2: Don’t sky dive drunk. Trust me. (and SO MUCH EXCESS FACE SKIN)

 We woke up after twenty minutes of sleep, convinced we were sober and had dodged the hangover completely. You know when your brain really WANTS you to be sober? And you go into that stubborn state of denial? I’m sober, the sidewalk is wonky. I can see fine, there’s always been two of everything. HAHAHA-NO. We were wasted. And about to jump out of a plane.

Screen Shot 2014-02-04 at 20.09.53 We arrived at the airport, and my queasy belly did a roll at the sight of the little effing planes. I mean, I knew they’d be small, but they were tiny. Instead of a door, they had a metal shutter like you’d see over a shop window. The sight scared me a little tiny bit.

We went in, signed our waivers: yes, we’re sober. Yes, if we die we won’t sue you from beyond the grave. meeee Then we did this sort of fake sky dive, where we got on a bench and assumed the position. I was so tired my eyes just rolled closed. I was not convincing anyone of my sobriety. But I somehow passed the test. Then I had to do a fake landing, which involved balancing on my arse cheeks on said bench with my legs akimbo. I did NOT have the motor skills for that task.

Still. It’s Vegas. Anything really does go.

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Soon, we were in the plane. And would you believe it? I was first in, last out. My ears popped and suddenly, my fear broke through my drunken haze… I was on a plane, ON A PLANE! Thousands of feet up, strapped to a stranger who was probably getting high off my breath.

The metal shutter thing was pulled open. I watched everyone plop out of the plane, one by one, dropping into the sky. I was in a plane with a ruddy big hole in it. Every film I’d ever seen told me this was bad news. So what did we do? We scooted towards the hole on our butts. I wrapped my legs out of the plane, sat fifteen thousand feet above the earth, with a strangers man-business pressing against my back. Man, those jumpsuits are THIN. Well, I guess he had to put up with my breath…

And then, off we went. That free fall was the best hangover cure of my life; the breeze was like a thousand pints of cold water to my poor abused body. My face resembled a bloodhound, but I was smiling underneath all that excessive face-flesh.

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…Until the chute opened. Then we went around and around in sickening circles, and that cold sweat sprung on my brow and that tell tale taste was in the back of my mouth… and my god, how I didn’t throw up right then, I have no idea. We got to the bottom. I managed to stick my legs up out of the way.

I survived! I felt a little better, until we piled into a jeep and drove back to the airport. For four miles. Off-road. With no air conditioning. I got out, determined to walk all lady-like to the toilet, but did I get that far?

I did not get that far.

Hello, last night’s cocktails, please meet this bin in a vigorous, projectile manner. The devil’s rainbow came out of my mouth.

Don’t get any on the jump suit!” the owner of the man-business shouted.




Great flight


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1 Comment Part 2: Don’t sky dive drunk. Trust me. (and SO MUCH EXCESS FACE SKIN)

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