I’m going to have to go out and buy a cake which has “sorry you had to buy a special scrubbing brush to clean my dried vomit off your toilet seat” written on it in icing.

I just returned from a night at the movies, where I shouted my friend her ticket, over-sized popcorn AND a coke. But this does not nearly cover the carnage in inflicted on this poor soul’s bathroom.

Let me take you back to Friday night, when Dannielle pulled off her classic part trick. I like to call it the Dannielle Gets Inappropriately Intoxicated During a Work Function stunt. Apparently, it’s taking me a few goes to pull it off, because the last few times I’ve attempted this little gem, my dinner ends up spattered on the walls of some unsuspecting bathroom.

On Friday night, it was my poor friend and work colleague’s bathroom.

I thought I had conquered the vomiting demon inside of me on this particular night, and settled down for a quick nap on my friend’s lounge room floor with a foolishly-loaned suit jacket as my sleeping bag. Sprawled out like a dying cat with breathing problems, a leg in a cast and a leaky bladder, I was at peace with the world. The carpet was lush, but firm enough for the right back support. Summer Heights High was playing. I’d managed to get my mitts on three deserts earlier that night. I was on top of the world.

And then I wasn’t.

I knew the vom was coming, and I had only seconds until impact. There was no time. I leapt from my warm patch of carpet, cast off anything that would weigh me down and legged it to the bathroom. The trouble was that I could not find the light switch. I fumbled for a second or two to illuminate the space I was about to desecrate, but my instincts told me to have faith in myself: I could find the open toilet.

Apparently, my instincts are a bunch of jerks.

Because I flung myself into the narrow bathroom in pitch black, went for it and completely missed the mark. This bathroom is like Baz Luhrmann’s Australia; you think it’s going to end and it doesn’t, it just keeps on fucking going. Most people would have ended it half way, or even three quarters of the way, but old Baz (like the architect of this apartment) thought he’d stretch it out just the little bit longer. Now, I actually liked that movie so I’m not going to try to draw any more comparisons between it and a utility that collects your bodily excrements, but at the very end of that unnecessarily long bathroom was a toilet. Thankfully, the lid was open. But it didn’t do me a lot of good.

You know how you see vaguely-European spies use their handguns succinctly to fire one or two shots to hit their target, then you flick to a different action movie and see the flawed but lovable and surprisingly buff American hero wielding a machine gun, shooting wildly at a wall hoping that one of the thousands of bullets dislodged in a flurry of fire may have hit the baddie? Well, just call me John McLane. I may as well have been wearing an eye mask, because I was blindly spraying bullets everywhere and really only shot the baddie in the leg. Except in this scenario the baddie was an open toilet and the bullets were chunks of the pork belly entre from a few hours earlier. Yippee ki yay motherfucker.

Now. Drunk Dannielle may have terrible aim, but she loves to help out. So while she really gutted the fuck out of Nakatomi Plaza, she made it her business to scrape any left over Grubers off the floor. A good 20 minutes went into that effort, and I thought I had done a reasonable job.

Unfortunately, when my poor friend got up to shower that following morning, she saw some pretty disturbing chunks at her feet. Round Two of the clean up was much more thorough, involving an actual mop, two types of cleaning spray and multiple Chux wipes. But, apparently Fractured Wrist and Hungover Dannielle is no domestic goddess.

Because tonight my friend told me she had to use quite a bit of Glen 20 that day, and went out to buy a specialist brush to get the dried contents of my stomach out of the gaps in her toilet seat. This is all in a room where this poor kitten is supposed to clean herself and feel like a fresh diva, and I go ahead and lace the room with my stomach bile.

She’s going to need one hell of a cupcake tomorrow. Also, she’s going to need some more toilet paper, because apparently five rolls were coated in pork belly.

Excellent show.