On Sunday, we hauled ourselves out of bed with hangovers of death to spend another lazy day at the beach. Surprisingly, the glaring sun and salt water seemed to be the cure. Until THE INCIDENT.




Our a la carte for the evening was at the Mexican restaurant in Tulum, situated on the beach. I was enjoying my veggie fajitas when Bandaid dropped her fork with a clatter and announced: “There is a maggot in my food.” I had already drunk two frozen margaritas at that point, and it was as if I were suddenly hammered. I could literally feel the blood rush to my head while we all paused, stunned, forks poised in midair, staring at each other across the table. Bandaid poked at the thing, Bob was ready to hurl, and Albertian argued that it was actually a piece of fat. This argument occurred for at least 20 minutes, because none of us knew what to do about it. I didn’t dare look at Bandaid’s plate, for fear that I wouldn’t be able to eat another morsel for the remainder of the trip.


We decided to leave. I felt bad when the waiter looked at us and said sadly, “Leaving so soon?” We tipped him anyway.


With nothing else to do and badly needing a distraction, we decided to check out the Michael Jackson show. I wanted mojitos. I wanted dozens and dozens of mojitos, and possibly some tequila shots. Halfway through the show, I realized I was plastered and trying to drink away the nausea that threatened to ruin my life (sound logic, obviously). The show was actually incredible. The impersonator moonwalked perfectly, and I nearly lost my mind when he played that song from Free Willy. Something about saving the world? Orca whales and happiness? Who knows. Mostly, I couldn’t tear my eyes off the cute man seated at the next table over. I winked at him and he grinned shyly.


Leaving the show, we ran into a group of boys from the UK that Albertian apparently became friendly with a few days earlier. We decided to pull up a table and have some drinks outside the lobby. I kept badgering the servers relentlessly for more mojitos because that silly little maggot kept invading my thoughts. I quickly became the only hammered person at the table, grinning stupidly when the boys mocked my pronunciation of “BEER.” Well, screw them and their cute accents. I didn’t want to make out with them anyway.