When I wrote about my first date with Marquee a few weeks ago, I failed to mention that I returned to the club the very next night. My pride only just got out of rehab.

This time, I was there for another event. I’ll be honest: I don’t even know what the specifics were–only that it had something to do with the empowerment of women in the workplace and that a friend of a friend hooked us up. The crucial detail of the night: for one hour, there was a vodka fueled open-bar.

We arrived promptly at 10:15 p.m. At 10: 30, the bouncer gave me a coy wink as he unhooked the velvet rope to let us in. Or was he reacting to the close proximity of a hair toss from the carefully straightened mane of a supermodel in front of me? Either way, the outcome made me feel a little special. I couldn’t help but feel the promise of this Friday night.

One hour’s worth of free drinks…and my friends and I intended to take advantage of the alcohol. We’d paid $25 to attend the event, so we had to drink more than our money’s worth in order to consider the evening worthwhile. Economically efficiency is always a first priority.

I’d worn a sparkling black and silver headband that everyone just loved. I could tell by the way that people smiled and pointed at me. Enthused, I decided to send a quick text to another friend about plans for later in the evening. It was Friday and I was ready for a late night. But as I opened my phone and attempted to type the text, the vodka reared its ugly head and sucker punched me in the face, sending me spinning. Oh, the spinning.

I didn’t feel buzzed. I didn’t feel drunk. I just felt ill. Horribly ill. And angry.

I recently finished college, a four year program designed to educate an individual about alcohol intake through hands-on experience. Such training should theoretically result in an expanded tolerance and a keen awareness of one’s limits.

But just when I think I’m all grown up and prepared for real life, my world spirals out of control. I tumbled out of Marquee, confused friends in tow. One loyal confidante reentered the club to retrieve my jacket, despite my pleas to, “Leave it! Leave it! It’s nothing to me now!”

As another friend and I waited outside, a guy tried to sell us Ecstasy. Apparently it was obvious to any Tom, Dick, or harried drug dealer that I was in need of a serious pick-me-up.

“I dthon’t dooo druugth!” I told him–the combination of drunk and cold induced a speech impediment best described as delightfully tacky, yet unrefined. It’s not often that one is filled with the essence of a Hooters bar, particularly not in front of Marquee. We needed to go. Immediately.

Just in the nick of time, my courageous friend emerged from the club with my coat in hand. We hailed a cab and were off!

…Until 2 blocks and half an avenue later when I suddenly felt like we’d kicked into Warp drive. As someone prone to motion sickness, particularly car sickness, this high-speed sensation is a personal nightmare of mine. At the red light I told my friends, “I gotta get out of here,” and gracelessly dumped myself onto the pavement.

After an avenue and three blocks on foot, my friends convinced me to get into another cab. This time, I rode in the front seat with my head hanging out the window like a dog.

The next day, after sending out a sad little batch of apologetic text messages, I solemnly vowed never to drink again. For one week. As someone who feels a bit of nostalgia for college, I guess it’s a comfort to know that the lessons continue beyond four years of formal instruction. In this case, I learned that, just as with Mexican food, sex, and grocery shopping at Trader Joe’s after 5:00 p.m., an open bar should be approached with enthusiasm, but also a bit of caution.