Pride Wounds

I’ve had my share of wild nights… well – let’s be honest – wild days, wild weeks, and wild weekends, too. But I’ve slowed down a lot in the past year. Maybe a few drinks a couple times a month or a night out with the girls here&there – nothing too big, though.
One of my last hoorahs in the wasted world was this past summer at Chicago’s Gay Pride Parade. Determined to hop on a float, I hurdled over the barrier keeping the crowd from the street and lunged onto a float just as I had with a friend the previous year. This time, though, I realized I was alone – which scared me. So I jumped back off and skidded across the pavement on my hands&knees. With no help from the crowd around me, I half-crawled my way out to the sidewalk and started running (cause running seems to be my solution when I’m drunk&scared) – still alone. Balling on the phone with my brother, a younger man offered me help.
“I just want a cigarette!” I wailed, so he plopped down next to me and enjoyed a nicotine fix.
Shortly after the smoke cleared, my brother, thefutureMrs.Jones, and a few of our frightened friends found me – bruised&bleeding on the sidewalk. We continued on our journey to the house party we’d planned to attend and raided the bathroom for antiseptic&bandages to clean me up.
Just like most of my unnecessarily-hammered stories, it’s somewhat comical looking back, but in the moment I was petrified. Thank goodness for the people who love me enough to keep their cool and practice patients till I’ve calmed down and been found.