Hunter Takes it to the Limit, Throws Up Everywhere

Hunter Takes it to the Limit, Throws Up Everywhere

Written on July 31st, 2006

Sometimes I find myself not taking my own advice, and exceeding the limits of my own body.

It was a normal night in which Horatio's mom wasn't around, so we had a little 5 man get-together to drink and make merry. In time:

8:30PM: I arrive. PK, Horatio, Yetti, and Sneakers are all sitting around talking. I'm confused as to why they aren't drinking yet, but they inform me they have had a little bit. PK takes his handle of vodka out and shows it off, because he's the type of person to show things off with a smile and a nod. I didn't notice then, but this vodka was the shittiest brand possible--VLADIMIR-- provided by noneother than Sneakers himself who would later realize said shittiness and nearly refund all money on the purchase.

9:00PM: Horatio, Yetti, and PK head to 7/11 for some stupid shit that I can't remember because I got too drunk this night to even comprehend how drunk I was, but, it was probably chasers and food that they got: neither of which I had a part in consuming. Throughout the latter half of my drinking career, I've not really considered chasers a necessity, just something pussies imbibe to take the "edge" off. Usually, more alcohol can take care of that.

9:05PM: I start taking shots while conversing with Sneakers about how he should join a comedy club somewhere downtown-- This man is hilarious, and, though he hates being the funny guy of a group, finding it to be a burden always to deliver lines, he really does have the talent for stand-up comedy, which, I find to be one of the great modern arts. I take my first shot and actually wince at the low quality of the vodka. I'm used to the shittiness of Aristocrat, or, if I'm lucky, Odesse. This is far, far below the quality of either of those, saving only 70-some cents in cost. Not worth the difference.

9:06PM: I'm on my third shot, and beginning to feel a warmth that I've long missed.

9:10PM: My fifth shot. I'm giddy at the prospect of Sneakers in a comedy club. His ass is making me laugh very hard. He's explaining the out-of-control proliferation of knowledge, among young kids, of his willingness to buy alcohol for kids.

9:15PM: I take a seventh shot and feel no backlash from the low-grade vodka. I do however, get the idea in my head that I might have been taking shots too fast, as alcohol absorbs at a constant rate. I supress the thought and happiness returns.

9:30PM: I'm done taking shots for awhile and Yetti, PK, and Horatio enter with whatever they went out to get--which I don't remember because I hardly remember anything from that night.

10:00PM: I coax someone into taking shots with me. I'm too drunk to remember who. We take several and I am dizzy as fuck.

10:30PM: A significant gap of time is missing from my memory already. I am worried. Although worried, I pick up Horatio's acoustic guitar and start strumming mindlessly and skill-lessly. I begin wailing like Chris Carrabba, attempting to draw everyone into what I think is the best song I've improvised in my lifetime. And my history of song-making extends to never and nothingness. So, I expect I was just whining in the corner, strumming random, caustic chords. It sounded awesome to me, so I continued for about 10 or so minutes, until I realized I was out of breath and energy. That meant it was time to drink more.

11:00PM: I've lost count of the shots I've taken, which generally means I'm on the verge of breaking a limit. It's totally true what Dave Chapelle says about white people, we seriously keep track of all the shit we do. And when I've lost that tendency, I've lost a part of my self in what I call "too much, too soon." At this point, I probably take a patented HUNTER SHOT, solidifying the fact that I will throw up later.

11:15PM: I'm stumbling around, wondering where I am. I open the back door and shamble onto the deck where I find a seat. The rest of the guys follow suit and begin a conversation I can't keep up with.

12:00AM: We're still outside and my head is in my hands-- I have no idea what the fuck is going on and my world is spinning out of control. All the energy in my body is focused on keeping the spinning to a minimum.

1:00AM: Apparently, according to Horatio, I was sitting in my seat for about an hour, head in hands, rocking back and forth saying "Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God." Not a good sign. I was destined to puke my brains out.

1:30AM: Somehow I manage to move from my white lawn-chair to a bench next to Sneakers. I think PK and Yetti are inside at this time because I've boarded a train straight to Pukesville. They wish not see it, I guess, though, I'm full of inaccuracies on this and many other recountings.

1:45AM: Head between my legs, I'm losing control. Puke just starts flowing. For minutes.

1:55AM: I feel better but it isn't over. Horatio informs me that he'll stay outside with me as long as I'm throwing up. I disregard this. There are more important things underway... like the actual act of throwing up.

1:59AM: I begin the dry heaves, and my mind says, "Oh, good it's basically over, you're in the clear." Wrong. Sneakers rubs my back in a circular motion, which, in retrospect is creepy, but, I didn't take it into account, as there were more important things going on in my head.

2:10AM: I'm puking, sputtering out a Subway BLT in liquid and chunk form. Horatio has abandoned me, saying, "[Sneakers], I leave the responsibility to you. Just get him home if you can. I really need to go to sleep." Sneakers accepts the responsibility, but only because he has a thing for me, I think. I'm okay with whatever help I can get, though, so whatever. He helps me up and I survey the damage I've done to Horatio's deck. "Damn," I say, "that's a lot of throw-up."

3:00AM: I'm inside, passed out.

The next day Horatio approaches me and tells me I've lost a lot of 'face,' to which I respond, "Yeah, but I really just wanted to get trashed that night, what can I say?"