Hunter Blacks Out, Goes To Patient First, Blames Free Beer

I wake up and my left arm feels thicker and more robust than usual. I slip it out from under my totally awesome comforter and see that there, wrapped around my arm, are bloodied bandages. I think to the night before and vaguely remember getting drunk. "Fuck," I think to myself, "what did I do this time?"

The bandages are stale and old--brownish. The first aid kit is a withering memory of some sort of lost responsibility, something my family neglected. 

Recounting the night, I remember "Calypso" and I were bored and decided to hang out. She suggests we go to this kid's house, a guy we'll refer to as "Tex," because he claims that he needs to get rid of beer. Beer usually tastes like donkey piss, but free beer always tastes delicious.

So we head over there and she drives, because she's the type of person who will sacrifice getting shit-faced so she can hang out with shit-faced people. It works out perfectly and I tell her this as I'm climbing in her car with a liter of my favorite "Hobo Mix." One part vodka(liter), one part brown paper bag(crumply).  Sometimes I think it would suck to be the sitter and not have anything, or much, to drink. But, then again, being the sitter enables you to fuck with the drunks, which is unending fun.  Making observations outside of "The Circle" can also be a learning experience.

Upon arrivial, I have already imbibed several swigs of what is, at this point, no longer bitter liquid. In fact, after 4 or 5 shots of vodka, it becomes the nectar of the gods, transforming into a delicious, almost ethereal, fire in my very soul.  Because I am feeling a drunken glow, I'm friendly and easily introduce myself to Tex's friends. Tex then proceeds to open his fridge in which a treasure trove of beer seemingly spills out upon the scene.  Golden Corona bottles fill the doors, plastic drawers, and shelves of the refridgerator.  It is packed to the very last available space.

Hunter: "Damn, you really do have a lot of beer."
Tex: "Yeah, and we need to get rid of it, so help yourselves."
Hunter: "Way ahead of you"

Vodka in hand, I begin using some Corona Light as chaser.  By my standards, the only good chaser is an alcoholic one.  There is some Bottom's Up pizza laying around, so I grab a slice of meat lovers.  Layer upon layer of solid delicious.  If alcohol is the nectar of the gods, this is their divine ambrosia.

Introduction and story swapping quickly segways to lame drinking games.  Now, don't get me wrong, drinking games are great--when liquour is involved.  But the only liquor in the house was my rapidly diminishing liter of vodka.   I think I'm the only one there who actually invested in drinking the vodka, so I guess this beer-centric drinking game isn't a bad break from getting hammered out of my mind.

During the game, I watch as three dudes make failed advances on Calypso.  She's the only female in the building at this point, and therefore competition is in play.  Though, as she tells me, Shit-Housed Hunter would hit on her, throughout the game I was just laughing inside, because, at that point, I had no vested interest in her--we were just friends.  She's less than talkative while they hit on her, but it becomes a pathetic dance in which she immediately shoots them and shuts them down. Repeatedly.  Conversation is an art, a literal dance of words, and there's always someone who can kill it.  She was playing conversation killer.  That was her defense.

The game degenerates into me ignoring the rules and kicking back beer after beer.  Fuck if I let cards control the fate of my intoxication.  I go outside with one of Tex's friends, who dons a pimp hat, to have a cigarette.  Outside, I have to pee, so I go further into the yard and do so.  I love the outdoors, aka, the biggest bathroom there is.  My zipper is stuck or I am too drunk to operate it, so I just drop trou in the middle of his yard and begin urinating with impunity.  I drench his doghouse.  I feel kind of bad afterwards and am thankful that his dog doesn't put much value into his home.  Running from an angry dog is the last thing you want to do while drunk.

After a few expiditions to the fridge for more beer, I end up laying outside on some broken desk. Tex's yard has a bunch of shit strewn across it, which doesn't matter because it's back in the woods off of the most trecherous gravel driveway I've ever been privy to almost dying on.  Calypso's car hardly made it.  Hull Integrity at 30%, captain.

Calypso comes outside and asks if I'm ready to go. I think the dudes have begun hitting on her hardcore at this point, and there is mention of a "bed [she] can sleep on." So, she's ready to go, and by asking me if I'm ready to go, she's really just signalling that if I don't leave with her, my ass is being left behind. This is where it gets hazy.
We're riding back, but then, my memory, or my entirety, blacks out.

Blood. Everywhere. The next thing I know I'm being hustled inside by Calypso who seems very pissed.  I am actually too drunk to realize this until she poors hydrogen peroxide on my arm, asking me if it hurts, and saying "Good" to what is obviously an affirmative "what is this shit? it hurts"--  hydrogen peroxide kicks your wounds' ass.

So I am bandaged and Calypso leaves at some point.  I'm hungry, so I fix some popcorn and ask my sister if she wants some.  I am still drunk and have just traumatized her with a falsified story of a knife fight, because I need a story to tell the folks in the morning.  This is where it gets interesting.  However, as I would find out, telling the truth is so much easier and rewarding than having to lie and continue to do so.

So, under my totally awesome comforter, stale and bloodied bandage, wake up, there's a wound.  What do I tell my parents? I call my dad and tell him I got in a fight, figuring this will be less worrisome for him than "I was drunk and don't remember."  This is not the case.  He pressures me into filing a police report, but I tell him all I really need to do at this point is see a doctor.  He suggests patient first, so, not having gone there before, I make my sister tag along.

I get there and am immediately depressed by the bleak look of my fellow patients.  On top of that, I have a massive hangover.  That's what happens when your source of hydration(or, really, dehydration) is exclusively alcohol and more alcohol.
I feed the nurse and doctor bullshit about my wound so as to practice the lie.  The doctor looks like an old, very haggard, hippie-esque child molestor.  He proves my theory correct by rubbing the arm OPPOSITE of my wound and touching my knee, simultaneously.  I tell him "Neither of those places hurt, you should look at [my left arm]."  He gets the message.  The one that includes the subtle body language of "I will kill you."  He tells me he can't stitch it up because it had been 8 hours since the wound, and the fear of sewn-up infection doesn't sit well with anyone, especially my arm.   They wrap my arm up, give me a tetnus shot,  and I'm on my way out. 

On my way out to get fucked by my complex web of lies.  But in the end, I tell my parents the truth, which actually, as it is said, "Set[s] [me] free," and really bolstered my family for the "Friend's Mom Finds About Hunter's Livejournal, Missiles Fly" incident.