Free You Deserve a Drink: Boozy Misadventures and Tales of Debauchery by Mamrie Hart Page B

room, you’d think I was giving birth to a Pepto-Bismol baby. And it isn’t until writing this
right now
that I realized the person who suffered the most during this whole ordeal was my roommate. What a sight to walk in to for two weeks!
    If I wasn’t laid out with my fanny to the fan, I was in the tub taking an oatmeal bath in hopes of drying out the rash. The dining hall workers must’ve thought I was a future subject for that show
Freaky Eaters
, judging by the amount of Quaker Oats packets I took from them. On the plus side, I smelled like maple and brown sugar for the next month.
    Long story short, the whole ordeal was a nightmare. Watch where you squat, ladies. And for the love of God, drip-dry. Besides the pain and discomfort, it was just flat-out embarrassing—the most embarrassing thing I can think of. In fact, the only thing I can think of that could possibly be as embarrassing as having poison ivy on your crotch is taking a ten-hour flight back to Italy with it all over your
face
. That was going to be a tough one for him to explain to his mama. Sorry, Piero! But also,
thank you
, Piero!

Show Thyme
    1 oz thyme simple syrup
    Fresh blackberries
    Juice of ½ lemon
    2 oz gin
    Champagne
    For the simple syrup, combine a cup of water, a cup of sugar, and about 4 or 5 sprigs of fresh thyme in a saucepan. Leave on low heat until all the sugar has dissolved and the liquid is good and thymey (ßnot a word).
    In a shaker, muddle 4 or 5 blackberries with the simple syrup. Add ice, lemon juice, and gin. Shake it all up and strain into a fancy lil’ glass. Top with champagne. Then throw 2 or 3 blackberries on a toothpick to garnish. The drink will be a beautiful purple (the favorite color of all girls in the ’90s), and the blackberries will resemble caviar, ’cause this shit is classy.

    I have zero hesitation admitting that I am a complete and utter narcissist. A self-deprecating narcissist, but one nonetheless. I probably post at least one selfie a day. It’s one picture—that I probably took fifteen times to get right. I talk into a camera at least twice a week, then stare at my face as I edit it, then continuestaring at my face as I upload it. * But when I was growing up, it wasn’t that simple. You took a photo of yourself and there was no checking it to see if your eyes were open. There was no, “Delete that. I’m making a derp face.” You had to play the roulette of dropping off the film at a drugstore and waiting a week to get it back. Envelopes of pictures were more nerve-racking to peek at than pregnancy tests!
    Disposable cameras have seen things. And touched things. There’s something about disposable cameras that makes people stick them down their pants and take a crotch shot. All I know is if I worked at a film-development counter, I would put on a fuckin’ hazmat suit if someone handed me a Kodak one-use. Back in my w horey glory days of college, I would straight-up get
anxiety
when I went to pick up pictures. I’d walk up to the CVS counter looking like the Unabomber—hat pulled down low, my hair in my face—and mumble, “Hi. I’m here to pick up some pictures. It’s under the name Twila Falstaff.” * Usually this was met with an “Mm-hmm” and a judgmental eyebrow raise as the clerk passed along the envelope, followed by me booking it out of there to check my pics in the safety of my car. Occasionally, the CVS employee would want to see me sweat, and I’d have to explain what was on the camera.
    Ummm. They’re pretty standard ones. Girls holding wine. Tailgating at the football game. Someone licking whipped cream off my neck as I’m dressed as Al from
Home Improvement.
    But of all the photos that have ever been taken of my face, there is one that holds a very special place in my heart. And that was . . . my Glamour Shot.
    For those of you who didn’t grow up going to malls (or were bornafter 1990), allow me to explain what Glamour Shots are. Glamour Shots are essentially the love