I still remember how in America, that night, at the motel, I woke up only because I had to pee- very very urgently I must add. If I wasn't so urgent I swear I would have kept it in until the next day when my ass didn't want to get burned by the afternoon sun anymore. So I lugged my half-dead drunk body to the bathroom, sat on the toilet bowl, pulled down my panty, and promptly threw up all over the floor and let some of it drip over my legs for good measure. "Fuck," I thought, "Oopsie daisies..."

I remember thinking to myself with absolutely grave seriousness, “Hmmm... Should I clean up the vomit up first or should I pee first or should I just go back to sleep, right here and right now because I’m so damn frigging tired and I can’t move anymore... But I still need to pee. Okay, okay, pee wee weeee..." What an important decision I had made. I was proud of myself, that I was clearly still very sensible, could still think extremely coherently despite the number of shots I had downed. So with the aromatic vomit all over me, I closed my eyes and...

My roommate called my name.

"I'm peeing," I said.

I think I said that. Or maybe I said it to myself but didn't say it to her. Later on she would insist I never spoke a word to her. (That is obviously very debatable.)

She pushed opened the door (which I forgot to lock) and hurriedly, I stood up, nearly slipped over my own pile of stinky regurgitated vodka, and slammed the door shut right in her face and locked it. If she had come any closer I might have shaved her nose with the door and given her a brand new face.

“Ey... Are you okay??” she asked.

My face turned red. "Oh my god," I prayed, "Hope she didn’t see anything. Hope she didn’t see me in such a sorry shitty state."

“I’m fine. I’m fine,” I mumbled.

"See lar you, just now so damn havoc," she joked.

"I'm not havoc okay. I'm very guai."

And then I couldn't remember if I had locked the door, or if she was just being polite and didn't want to come in. So in my paranoid state, I grabbed the showerhead, switched it on, and washed the whole damn place with hot hot water and watched the white smokey steam rise to the top of the ceiling. Now my roommate might actually have thought that I was performing some sort of cult-like ritual inside. Huba huba, akin to the Exorcism of Emily Rose. To complete the performance, I threw myself into the bathtub, half-dressed, clothes sticking to my skin, make-up clogging my pores, and let the water take me.

I thought about that time when my sister came home drunk. She was at the door, clinging helplessly to her girlfriend, kissing her girlfriend- trust me, this was not in any way sensual, it was more like a disgusting slobber- while her girlfriend shivered with goosebumps and said timidly, "Hi."

"Hi," I said.

"Nah you take!" she exclaimed. Instantly she threw my sister over to me, as if she was a bomb about to explode, and I caught her just before her head hit the concrete pavement.

I totally understand why perverted guys like to fuck drunk girls. Seriously. They are soft, and warm, and gentle, and very, very, compliant. But goodness, they are HEAVY. Like dead bodies without souls.

I dragged her into the house, put her on the floor, and closed the door. I tried to drag her to the sofa so she could rest, but I couldn't make it there.

"Be? Bebe ah? Bebe?" I called, "I need you to get up and go lie on the sofa. Can not? Can you do that for me? Please?"

She started to cry.

"Shit. Okay sorry, sorry... Don't cry, don't cry... You don't have to move okay? Just stay right here."

"I'm so sad," she wailed, "I'm so, so, so so sad..."

"Why?? What happened? Who bully you?"

"I'm so sad..."

"Come, you just tell me, I help you," I said.

"I..."

I leaned my head closer to her, trying not to breathe in the poisonous fumes of her bad breath, "Ya? What is it?"

"I... I peed on my pants..." With that confession made, she burst into an ocean of salty tears.

"That's it? You're sad because of that??"

I wanted to laugh (later on I would, at her expense of course) but there was something so deeply sorrowful and tragic in her voice that I couldn't bear to bring myself to even tease her. I felt the need to hold her, to take care of her, to watch over her.

"Okay... It's okay... I'll clean you up, okay?"

She sniffed and nodded like a little girl, "Okay."

"Okay. Good. I go get clean clothes for you okay?"

"Okay."

I moved away from her and immediately, she grabbed me by the wrist and cried even louder than before, "Don't goooo!"

"What?" I asked.

"Don't go... Don't leave me alone..."

"But if I don't go, how to get you changed??"

"Don't go..."

"Okay... Okay..." I whispered, "I won't go."

Just like that, the two of us, rested on the cold hard floor, and listened as the cars outside passed us by.

By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, it looked like I had set the whole place on fire. But thank gawd, my roommates were sound asleep. I changed into a dry new set of clothes, cleaned my mess up, and looked at the time. It was 4am in the morning.

I made myself a hot cup of tea, my head still spinning, got out of my room and sat by the side of the main road. (Cars don't start coming in until 6am.) I soaked in the solitude as I watched the sun come up, watched the sky change from black to blue to pink to orange...

I often wonder to myself, "Where is home? Where do I belong? What am I running away from? And if I want to stop running, because I do, I really do want to stop running, where do I stop?" I think... Home is knowing you have somewhere to go back to, when the fun is over and they turn off the lights and everyone scatters. It is knowing you have someone to carry you when you're drunk, to rub your back while you puke, to protect you even from yourself, even if you smell like sewage and look like a trashy hooker. Its where you can rest, take refuge, no matter how screwed up you are, how lousy your day was, how many boys break your heart, or how many friends drift away from you.