Perfect Night Ruined by Marriot, Morning

    A great night of drinking gone horribly, horribly wrong.  I don't know what great thing Karma has in store for me after all of this, but it better be good.  I am running on two hours of sleep, I am hung over, I just slammed my hand in the bathroom stall, and I have officially lost my license. This is that story, totally raw and uneditted, though I may do that later.

    My night began when two blonde girls came stumbling into my room, imploring me to join them outside.  I had just finished talking to Theft online, and he had given me the invite to join what seemed, to me, like a pretty fun group.  So, here I am, invited three fold to go drink. I have driving school the next day(today, as of writing this), but three reasons to drink overwhelm one reason not to. With this logic, I put up the weakest fight of my life:

Shortblonde stumbles into my room, followed by TallBlonde, and announces that she is a little trashed.  She staggers over to my bed and slouches on it, putting her right hand on my left shoulder.
ShortBlonde: "C'mon Hunner! Come drink with us, we've never drank together before!"
TallBlonde: "Yeah, it'll be fun, come with us"
Hunter: "But I have to go to driving school tomorrow."
ShortBlonde: "It'll be fine!"
Hunter: "Weren't you the one trying to get me to go to the doctor's, and now you want me to drink?  You are trying to kill me.  That makes you a bad person."

At this point, she pulls that faux-offended tone.

ShortBlonde: "HUNTER! That's mean!"
Hunter: "I know, but it's true, you're totally going to end my life.  This makes me sad."
ShortBlonde: "I am not."
For much of this conversation TallBlonde is just reafirming whatever ShortBlonde says, because she doesn't know me as well and therefore doesn't have much to say to me.  At least until later.
ShortBlonde: "Buuuut, you should come with us, our group is meeting outside."
TallBlonde: "We're taking a break, but we're going back to Nielsbohr's room."

I promise to meet them out there and they leave.  Two minutes later they're back.

TallBlonde: "AREN'T YOU COMING?"
Hunter: "Jesus. Yeah, one second."
I start putting on shoes.
ShortBlonde: "Haha, he doesn't have shoes on!"
I don't know why this observation is funny, but she is drunk and anything goes.
They leave my room and I think I can take my time.  I am wrong.  Seconds after managing to put pants and shoes on, I'm being hustled out of my room.  I leave it unlocked even though I doubt I'm coming back.  ShortBlonde informs me that they waited because they need me to insure that they don't get raped on their way down the stairs, out the door, and 20 feet to the designated smoking area where everyone waits.  I laugh and tell her that I seriously doubt the validity of that fear.  But, hey, then again, I'm deathly afraid of zombies and spiders with gigantism.  We need to be prepared for that shit, I am so damn serious.

    Outside, I am the only sober person.  This destroys my ability to permeate the social bubble.  I do get the "It's HUNTER!" greeting, but my novelty wears off quickly.  This is normal.  After awhile, I'm playing the Hokey Pokey of conversation. I put my foot in, take it out, and repeat.  At some point this guy, "Solo," comes out with a delicious concoction of gin, whiskey, and cranberry juice.  (Aside: I call him Solo only because that's his self-applied image: A Han Solo type badass who is, at his core, a Star Wars nerd. It's cool, I am too, but this guy pulls it off flawlessly.) He shares his elixer with Theft, Shortblonde, and myself.  Alcohol induces happiness in my soul, and I'm conversation-ready. Theft, Solo, and myself somehow arrive at the subject of tattoos, and, in the background, Psych starts rambling about her cousin. No one is listening, but I make the fatal mistake of eye-contact.  Now I'm committed to her rant:

Psych: "My cousin had a tattoo that said 'Death Before Dishonor.' He was a war vet.  Lost his legs and all of his fingers.  He was in a war, can you guess which one?"
No one guesses, and she doesn't answer.  Shortblonde, who is sitting next to me, positioned in line of sight between myself and Psych, turns my way and mouths "Oh. My. God." I give her the subtle, "Yeah, I know" grin.
Psych: "He was in a war and died before I ever knew him.  And THAT is why I want to get a tat that says 'Death Before Dishonor' to commemorate him."
She goes on to sing about her desire to have, and I quote, "lesbian sex."  I mean, cool, whatever, as long as your dissertation is over.  I am never drunk enough for sob stories. There was never a point in my drinking career when I've said, "I'm getting drunk and looking to have some fun, let me listen to you bitch and moan about someone who died. FOR THE NEXT HOUR!" YES, totally my idea of a great night.  Not even Greez(from Drunk People) will pay attention to her.  He stands several feet away smoking a cigarette, talking to another girl.

    I take some time to talk with Nielsbohr about drinking with the group, because, after all, he(and his friend) purchased most of the alcohol, and, hey, I'm not one to just join up and expect shit to be given to me.  I make my way over and start talking to him and Somegirl from Drunk People.  They tell me how awesome I am.  I tell them how much I appreciate verbal felatio. I'm good to drink, as long as I run it by "BadDeal," a guy who was recently in a bad drug deal or something and got shot in the ass.  He's the other guy who bought the stuff, and he says they bought plenty and I'm welcome to join.  So I do. 

    Within minutes, I'm upstairs in Nielsbohr's room with Theft and Solo, drinking.  I can tell these dudes are going to be my friends, because they have, along with myself, engineered the move back to drinking-- the purpose to the night.  They understand priorities. The group outside slowly realizes said priorities and begins to filter back inside.  With every knock, someone bounds for the door to make sure it's not someone on call. I want that kind of drunken alertness, so I begin drinking twice as fast as everyone else. They have been drinking for a solid hour, and I want to catch up.  Minutes pass and the room is full of people.  Neilsbohr hands out 40's and sarcasm. Two of the girls don't understand his jokes.  Three if you count Psych, who is curled up in a ball on the floor.  Her face rests on my foot and I feel uncomfortable at the prospect of her puking on me. I nudge her off my feet. She is roused, stands up, and starts staggering around what little space is left in the room. I trade Solo my beer for a 40.  He doesn't want to get too drunk. I do. 

    At the far end of the room, a girl dances with the refridgerator.  She dances like a stripper.  Another girl joins her.  Neilsbohr announces that this is awesome.  Several guys agree.  Somegirl sits across from me suckling on a 40 all to herself.  She looks like a toddler with a giant bottle, it looks so improportionate.  Her intoxication is visibly growing by the second.  To my left TallBlonde starts talking about something and I make some comment I can't remember.  She says I'm another Theft.  I like to think I'm a unique person, but she continues to tell me I am not.  She says she, Theft, and myself have very similar personalities.  I reassure her this is the reason we're hanging out, because we're so awesome.

    There's a knock at the door.  Five new faces wait awkwardly in the hall.  The door opens and immediatey Theft is on the case. He leaps upward and body-blocks the entrance. He's probably the most sober person, and therefore has a responsibility to talk with other sober people.  Sobriety becomes a language barrier after awhile.  Theft negotiates:

Theft:"Okay, you guys gotta turn around.  You, you, you, you, and you, you're out.  Turn around and leave, there's no room for you here."

    Everyone in the hall has just had their feelings hurt, and I can't help but laugh at them. In retrospect, though, I think they caused our downfall.  Not to mention Psych.  Shambling back and forth, she manages to knock EVERYTHING off of ANYTHING within reach.  She causes a loud CRASH.  I think it was TallBlonde who calls Greez(again, from Drunk People) to come get Psych.  He does and they leave, her trashed, him pissed. They're seriously like an old married couple. Not ten minutes after they leave is there another knock on the door.  The guy watching out for the door says he doesn't recognize the girl at the door.  This is because he doesn't live in the dorm.  Neilsbohr goes up to the door, looks through, and opens it. It's a Resident Assistant, but she's not wearing the standard issue red shirt and that is cheating.  She interrogates Nielsbohr, asking him what we're doing:

Satan the RA: "SO what's going on in here?"
Neilsbohr: "We're just hanging out"

I'm almost certain his sudden control over himself has come from a surge of necessary adrenaline.  But, despite his control, certain unchecked factors were out to fuck us over:

Satan the RA: "So what's that?"
She points to an empty Natty Ice.  These bastards don't taste good enough to get us caught, it's not fair.
Nielsbohr: "I don't know, it's empty.  I don't know how it got in here."
A flimsy defense, especially considering there are cans openly cluttering the room.
She gives him two options.
Satan the RA: "You can either gather up all the alcohol and let me watch you pour it out..."
Fear strikes my heart and I begin hiding all the alcohol I can get my hands on.  Under the bed, under a hoodie, in a backpack.  I'm out of sight from her, and I am not about to let this shit go to waste.
Satan the RA:"...or I can call the cops on you."  Which she of course does anyway.
Nielsbohr: "Okay, we'll pour it out.  We'll pour it out. Come on guys, let's get all the shit out of here, anything you can find."
Somegirl looks directly at me and I can read exactly what she's asking me.  "Do we offer up what you've hidden?"  I shake my head. I text my girlfriend and tell her she needs to come counter-act my buzz kill from getting caught, but she has already left to party with her friends. She tells me she'll message me when she's coming back.

    Most of the group has left to pour out the alcohol and eventually make their way downstairs for further questions(and to get written up.) The room is gripped in near silence.  The shock disallows any sort of leadership.  I jump into action!  I tell Somedude2(ANOTHER from Drunk People, and who will henceforth be known as "Toilet") that he should go downstairs to his room.  TallBlonde and Somegirl second this, telling him he can't get caught again.  The night before, I had stayed with him for two hours in the bathroom as he grappled a toilet for dear life.  A dark, viscous brown coated his left arm, the base of the toilet, some of the wall, and the floor.  He had been caught for underage drinking before, was on the verge of getting kicked out of college, and was in a bad place.  In spite of my ability to put myself first, I could not leave him in good conscience(I might write about that night some other time).  So, everyone agrees, Toilet should run downstairs and seek refuge in his room.  He does, but for some of us, the party must go on.  I announce that we still have alcohol and are going to escape with it.  Theft is in.  Solo is definitely in.

    We chill in Solo's room for awhile, backpack full of alcohol.  Solo tells us to brainstorm while he goes and takes a piss.  All I can do, though, is gawk at all of his Star Wars paraphernalia.  Alliance and Empire insignias checkerboard his bedsheets. He has Super Star Wars for the SNES and a Darth Vader belt buckle.  Later, I learn that he was in a short-lived rap metal band called the DL44's-- the type of gun Han Solo used and modified in Star Wars lore.  He comes back and says,
Solo: "So what's the plan?"
Hunter: "Dude, I was totally checking out your Star Wars shit.  It's incredible."
We sit and think some more, Theft goes to take a piss.  He has broken the seal, and will now suffer his bladder's dominion over him for the rest of the night.
Back home what me and Horatio(one of my best friends ever) would do is he would go up to his room, throw the plastic handle of vodka into a backpack, and drop it out his window where I would catch it.  I suggest this, mentioning that I'm great at catching alcohol, because it's like my child and I care about it.  All the alcohol is in glass, so we feverishly pack the bag with clothes so as to pad it.  Solo appoints Theft Resident Bag-Dropper, while he and I head downstairs to snatch up his vehicle--The Millenium Centra.  Exiting the building, we see Nielsbohr and ShortBlonde sitting with Satan the RA at a round table.  They are so utterly fucked.  ShortBlonde attempts to make eye-contact with me, but I shake my head and mouth "don't make eyecontact" for the alcohol's sake.   In Solo's car, we realize the cops have arrived.  We drive passed, and I call Theft.  We decide dropping it out of a window is sketchy as hell and we should probably get together and brainstorm again.  The thing about making plans while already a little intoxicated is you may find yourself needing more than one mind at work.  That is unless you're very drunk, in which case you just do whatever comes to mind first.  I call this Auto Pilot.

    The next thing I know, the three of us are walking outside with a box of Funyuns.  A box of Funyuns, not full of Funyuns.  No, this box was packed with alcohol. We make our way back to the Millenium Centra and hop in.  I, of course, get shotgun, because I have mastered the art of calling shotgun. Shotgun is the seat of power second only to driving.  It doesn't matter who you're with, what you're talking about, or where you are, the shotgun seat insures that you will be involved in everything-- you're up front, and people's voices project forward.  You win, is all I'm saying.  And yeah, I am good at calling shotgun. I have, by accident, socially engineered many people into making it a competitive sport. Seriously, there's an official handbook on calling shotgun, I own it.  I can't make this shit up.

    We wait in Solo's car for awhile, Somegirl joins us and so does this guy, who I guess I'll call "Pipes," because that's what he always has, a pipe.  Like Sherlock.  I didn't learn much about him that night, because he was pretty quiet, but it turns out he's cool as shit.  Group assembled, we head off into the night towards Shortpump, a 20 or so minute drive from Richmond to where Solo's parents live.  Solo needs gas, so our first stop is 7/11.  I have been drinking heavily since we left, and I have to pee.  Theft and I race to the bathroom.  I get the first place prize of the men's room.  Theft goes in the women's bathroom because he has terrible bladder control.  I get out first and, through the door, tell him he has a vagina.  "Fuck you," is his only response, and I can't really argue with it.  On that note, he steps out and we all return to the gas pump where Solo waits.  I call shotgun, no blitz.  It is uncontested.  Solo has filled his tank with five dollars in cash.  I have ridden with him a number of times since this night, and I realize that he keeps his tank basically on "E," filling it up only a handful of dollars with every brief trip.

    On our way to Solo's residence, I drink more while, in the back, drama ensues between Theft and Somegirl.  Pipes stays relatively quiet and Solo plays the role of Disk Jockey, playing brief bits of songs with heavy self-commentary.  It's cool though, because random trivial knowledge is, while useless, pretty interesting.

    The trip ends and we pull into the driveway idle and dark.  We go inside and start smoking.  At some point, I begin a conversation with my girlfriend.  She says she's coming back to the dorm in fifteen minutes and that I should come to her room. I understand the implications, but I am twenty minutes out.  This is a problem.  I go to the group:
Hunter: "Guys, this is fun and all, but there's the possibility that I may be getting laid tonight, and, you're going to have to take me back, Solo."
Solo: "I totally understand"
Hunter: "Yeah, no, I mean, like 10 or so minutes. She's coming back in 15."
Someone says that we're twenty minutes out.
Hunter: "Yeah, I know.  That's what I'm saying.  And, don't get me wrong, you guys are all cool, but hanging out with you does not equate to sex."
Somegirl looks at me like I'm an asshole, and I go and pee behind a bush.
I come back and Solo says he understands and can get me back in time, because, as he says, "I'm fuckin' Solo."

Just as a side, here's some of the text messaging that went on between my girlfriend and I throughout that night:
Me: Drinking in dorm BAD! Caught
Her: No way! Are u in deep shit?
Me: Maybe probably not
Her: Good cause that would suck
Me: Come see me this buzz kill
Her: I cant ive left! But ill visit when i get back :)   (Take note of the smiley)
Me: Yeah thats what i mean
Her: Ooh yea right on

(later on)
Her: Im gonna be back in like 15 mim. You should come to my room
Me: K no idea when ill get back atsome random house in short pump will call you
Her: Boo you whore. But cool

(after my talk with Solo about getting me back.  I am high and drunk.  This is my favorite line, because it's so typical and so random)
Me: Headed back pink floyd kicks ass
Her: So good

(these next few I send when I get back. I don't receive any response)
Me: In your room?
Me: Let me know when youre back

    I get impatient and call her.  It turns out she's there and has been messaging me to come upstairs.  I go up.  And most of this we'll just leave undisclosed because I'm not about to be a complete dick and post a detailed account of things.  But, speaking of dicks, that night a condom exploded on mine.  Let me break it down for you, free condoms are the bane of my existance.  I don't care if they're banana flavored, they're free and suck.  They're totally small and constricting, and some, like Durex, do not have lubricant.  I can only liken using Durex to fucking a doctor's glove.  Anyway, I put on one of the free ones we have laying around and go, "This actually feels alright, are you sure it's free?"  And then, looking down, realize it has totally exploded and only a small ring is at the base of my shaft.  FUCK free condoms.  Not to fear, there were legit brand names to be used, but still, I can't wrap my mind around free condoms.  If you can tell me who finds them useful, please do, because I would love to laugh in their pathetic little face.

    She and I are doing the whole post-coital cuddle business when my phone buzzes.  I finally receive her later texts:
"Yea just come in" and "I am bAck.just  come up here."  I like the second one because it shows some sort of frustration behind the words.  Her roommate comes in and, at the time, I don't care if it's awkward for her that I am basically naked in her best friend's bed.  After all, I was drunk.  I would feel bad for her later, but only briefly, as nothing could overshadow my excellent night.  Except losing my license.

    Two or three hours after falling asleep, my girlfriend wakes me up.  She says, "Hey, you, get up.  You have to get up."  I tell her thanks as I stumble out of the room while putting pants on. I rush downstairs and grab a mountain dew out of my fridge to help wake me up.  My dad calls. He's waiting outside and we're running late for my appointment.   I grab a sheet of paper, identification, and a pen.  I'm downstairs, in the car, and we're gone.  I make it on time.

    Totally hung over, I go into the Marriot where I'm supposed to attend my class.  The Dutch woman at the front desk looks at me like I'm retarded, telling me she has no idea what I'm talking about.  With her thick accent, she says I can attend the War Vet's Convention or the Siminar For the Blind.  I tell her I am neither a weapon of the government nor visually impaired. And thank god not both at once.  I am not happy, and I tell her this on my way out.  "Fuck the Marriot, I've just lost my license."

    (The moral of the story is sometimes you might fuck yourself over.  And other times, when you think you're fucking yourself over, you realize it was always going to be out of your hands.  I attribute this life lesson to the Marriot.)