8 posts tagged “drinking”

     Nothing is as difficult as the decision to answer or ignore incoming calls.  For me at least, it had been this way my whole life.  Until recently, a new path flattened the hazy overgrowth around me, and I was set in forward motion to an unknown destination.

     It started about three months ago.  I was at a party with some friends, a college somewhere northwest of where I am now.  It is pretty hazy.  All I remember is drinking my fourteenth beer and then blood-- blood everywhere.  Something had broken, some sort of glass structure.  I didn't fully understand what, but I knew it had been my fault.  In earnest, I gathered the splinters with my hands, some piercing my skin.  Blood poured out on tile flooring and two silhouettes told me it was okay, and to stop. 

    I didn't stop.

    Blood kept pouring until my hands were red, and someone grabbed me by the shoulder, picking me up and hustling me to the bathroom.  In my beer-full dream, I wept as someone picked little shards from my palm. 
    "I'm worthless," I told the person, and believed it. 
    The person helping me was my friend, Parson.  He reassured me I wasn't worthless, that I was worth something, but I persisted. 
    "I'm a horrible waste," I kept saying, "A horrible piece of shit, worthless, worthless, worthless."
    No, he would tell me, you are my best friend.  Whether that was true or not was the least of my concerns.  What happened next is most important.  After cleaning out my wounds, Parson left to tend to what I later heard was a broken hookah.  By "tend to," I mean he paid the guy for it.  He was going to sell it to us anyway.  But now it was broken.  A false, empty purchase, like the day I was birthed to my parents, I had in my head. 

    Parson was full of money.  He drove a nice car that he had replaced after totaling his first.  He paid for the damages, but it was ultimately with the backing of his mother, a banker, that pulled him through.  On the other hand, there is me, alone in the bathroom with only a sad, depressed version of myself, filling myself with horrible thoughts. 

    I look down at the ripples in the toilette.  My tears are falling in with the rest of the waste.  I'm Poor, my drunk version told me.  I'm Poor and I'll Never Amount to Anything.  My Girlfriend Won't Love Me.  My Parents Have Abandoned Me.  None of it true, except for right now.  I reach in my pocket to grab my phone.  To talk with God or who knows, but I grab my phone.  It fumbles from my pocket and hand, spins through the air and splashes right into the middle of the toilette.  Water spills up onto my leg, and this is the grain of rice that tips the scale.  I actually begin crying. 

    I bend to fish my phone out and reach for some towels.  Parson comes back and walks me out.  The rest is a blur.  All I remember is crying for what seemed like an hour while some girl desperately tried to study in the far corner.  I must have been in some study hall.  The study desks, four linked desks, looked like swastikas from above, up on the stairs.

    Somehow Parson managed to drive us back-- a two hour drive-- somewhat drunk.  He asked me questions all the way back, wondering how to contact my girlfriend and tell her I was in bad shape.  He called people to message her online since he couldn't get in contact with them. 

    God, she was fucking worried the next day.  She felt waste. 

    Waste is something unneeded.  Like worrying about nothing, she would tell me.  Like wasting your worry, your feelings expecting something much, much worse than just a sad, sad drunk.  But expectations narrow your reality-- which is why dropping my phone in a toilette was a blessing.  My view-screen is permanently fucked up.  I could break my two year contract with those miser-y bastards and get a new one, but this is a sign.  A sign to answer every call.  My view screen is white.  Just white.  A harsh, clinical whiteness.  And I have no fucking clue as to who is calling me.  As to what is coming my way.  So I let it come.  I accept everything. 

Sometimes I let it stay. 

And sometimes I let it go.  

The last sane story I will tell begins with four guys walking twelve blocks in the cold to get to a party.  A party that isn't going on that night.  So, four more blocks over, to a party where some girl we'll call "Jill" invited Theft.  "I'm bringing someone" he told her.  Someone(s), it turns out.  When we get inside, Chocolate, Theft, Roman, and myself all mingle at the door before spotting the keg.  I am immediately ahead of everyone, leaving my friends behind.  There is a couch against the wall, next to the keg, and in front of the beer pong table.  People are sitting on the couch like it is a fucking riser for the beer pong game.  Their legs hang over the edge of the couch and form a gauntlet to the keg.  This gets increasingly irritating as I drink more.   

The next thing I know I have five solo-cup sized beers in me and I am out on the porch negotiating with Tony, a kid from my dorm, to give me some of the liquor he brought with him.  He has major OCD and won't let me drink out of his bottle.  I tell him this is probably for the best, since, you know, I have aids from all the buttsex I have.  Apparently I say this very loudly, because a group of people turn to stare at me.  The girl in the group is hot and I decide saying "Yeeah, you heard correctly" is the appropriate response.  I don't say anything else, as I am back to bargaining for liquor, the devine nectar of the gods.  The girl turns around and giggles.  Tony agrees to pour some of his draft into my red cup.  He tells me it is Bacardi 151.  I tell him I love him.  We throw back together.  He wretches and I lick my lips, telling him I am indebted, and that 151 is delicious. 

I head back inside for more beer since I have no more liquor.  I pass Theft on the way inside and shake my empty cup in the air at him.  He takes a second to register this, turns, and asks, "Dude, you're going back already? How many have you had?" 
"Like five," I tell him. 
"Let me catch up!"
I smile and walk away, tripping over the gauntlet of feet stretched casually across the floor.  This pisses me off so as soon as I get my beer I chug it and fill up for a seventh.   With my seventh beer in hand, I head back to the porch outside.  The porch rests on the second floor of an apartment building.  I want to test its integrity, so I give Theft my beer and begin jumping up and down.  Because, testing something with YOURSELF that could lead to your DEATH is an awesome idea.  Theft is saying something to me, but I am too busy testing the strength of the pillars below.  
Theft: "Dude, it's concrete"
Hunter: "That just means we'll fall faster, right?"
Theft: "Uh, what beer are you on?"
Hunter: "Mmmm, like.. like seven... and some 151 that Tony gave me."
Theft: "Jesus man, I'm on like four, give me a chance to catch up with you."
Hunter: "I knew a guy that ate just ketchup.  It was gross."
Seeing that I was 100% capable of sustaining a real conversation, Theft takes this time to introduce me to "Jill," the girl that invited him.  She is cute, with short brown hair, bobbed, and piercing eyes. I shake her hand and she smiles. I am not revolting to her because she is probably more drunk than me.  Distracted, she shambles off into the party.  I ask Theft if he is hooking up with her.  I must have almost yelled it, because he's giving me the buldging eyes, slice-across-the-throat hand movement.  "Oh," I say.  "Nice." 

I head back inside and pass the couch.  This time, I step on everyone's feet.  Someone calls me an asshole, but I tell them they are impeding my intoxication.  I get an eighth beer and Chocolate and Roman say they're headed out.  I am giving them high fives and hugs like they're departing for some long journey that they'll never come back from.  I turn around and some random guy is behind me, so I high five him too.  I am a happy drunk tonight. 

Terror strikes.  The keg is dry.  I almost begin weeping, because I am no where near as drunk as I want to be.  Jill sees that I am distraught and comes up to me.
Jill: "There's another keg in the place behind this one.  Just go around back, outside, and take a left."
Hunter: "You are my hero."
I end up following her to the next apartment where she waits outside to smoke.  You know, on one of those ancient fire escape things, the pitch black metal and what not. Inside, I am packed between two fat dudes that smell like shit.  Luckily a girl entertains me while I wait to get to the alcohol.  She asks me if I'm Hunter.  Hunter Caldwell.  I say yes, and ask her why the hell she knows me.  I am enamored.  I feel famous. "You went to James River, you were in my graduating class. I guess you didn't see me much."  It just got scary.  I have never ever seen this girl in my life.  She tells me her name as she exits and I tell her I'll look her up on Facebook sometime.  I immediately forget her name. 

I finally get to the keg, fill up, and leave.  I go outside and my current entertainment, Jill, is gone.  I decide to drink this beer as fast as possible and go for another.  I do, and a guy from my dorm comes up behind me saying, "Nice."  I turn around to see who it is.  It's some kid that absolutely zero people like.  I've never had a problem with him, but think that fate has given me a means to my own entertainment.  I talk to him for awhile, making sarcastic remarks about his leather outfit.  Before I go for another beer, he asks me what my name is.  Not being very creative in my drunken stupor, I tell him my name is James.  That's my first name, so technically I wasn't lying.  Throughout the rest of the night I would tell him my name was Fred, Jason, Jackson, Jefferson, Earnest, Bunsburry, and Captain Kirk.  I think he finally got it by the last one. 

After several more beers, I am out on the terrifyingly high fire escape.  Jill is sitting on the stairs leading up.  I guess to the roof, there aren't any third floor apartments.  She's smoking a cigarrette, and I ask her for one.  I am not a smoker, but when I drink, I do smoke.  The nicotine-alcohol concoction is nice for a head rush.  We sit out there and smoke, talking.  I am not going to lie to you, I remember nothing of the conversation, and I'm not going to pretend I do.  She asks me to hold on to her cigarrette and heads inside to use the bathroom.  The kid from my dorm comes by and asks my name.  I think this is somewhere around the use of "Jefferson."  "Cool," he says, and I head inside, leaving Jill's and my cigarrette behind on the rail. 

After awhile, I am drinking another beer out on the porch, talking to Theft, when Jill comes up.  She asks me if I have a girlfriend.  I am honest, so I say yes.  I kind of wish I didn't right now, because the question is not subtle at all.  I tell her yes, and am surprised to hear her explain the friend zone. 
She says, "Oh, because you can climb the 'Friend' ladder or the 'Fuck' ladder."  Ooo, girlfriend means "Friendzone"!  I'm not a cheating bastard, but am disappointed to have been put in a less-than-awesome category.

The rest of the night between that and getting back to the dorm is unimportant.  We did go to another party, but it was totally lame.  The last thing I remember before getting back to the dorm is riding on Theft's back down the street. 

So, I get to the dorm, sloppily swipe my card a few times, and rush upstairs.  Yes, stairs.  Even drunk, I have a four-floors-or-less stairs policy.  I live on the third floor and I refuse to be that lazy.   I have to take a hurculean piss, so I go to the bathroom.  I see two shoes sticking out from under a stall door.  Somebody has been partying way harder than me.  It kind of reminds me of the Wizard of Oz, and I wonder if the shoes will curl up and disappear. 

I am willing to ignore the person, take my piss, and be on my way, but then the groaning starts. 
Hunter: "You alright in there, man?"
"OoOOOARH!"
Hunter: "Dude, you don't sound so good, you need some help?"
He starts puking, "BLAAAARRRH!"
I finish up and look under the stall.  There is dark, viscous liquid coating everything.  The toilet, the floor, the wall, his arms and shirt.  It is fucking gross.  I reckognize him.  It is "Somedude2" from my story "Drunk People."  We'll just call him "Toilet" in honor of his submission to the porcelain god. 
Hunter: "I am so getting you some water man... it's like. . . a cure-all"
Toilet: "BLllaaargh"
I go to DasBox, knowing he is the only other person awake at four in the morning.  I ask him to help me.  I don't know for what, maybe moral support.  Or maybe because Toilet is a fucking tank of a person, and immobile to someone like me. 
We keep supplying Toilet with water and he keeps throwing most of it up, or just pouring it on himself.  Toilet has been arrested before on campus and is on the verge of getting kicked out of the dorm, so I can't leave him in good concience.  We decide to move him.  But first we get a trashcan so he can throw away his shirt.  It is literally caked in brown and black throw up.  I don't know about you, but the second I start throwing up black shit, get help for me, please.   We get him to his room.  I walk inside, and try to get Greez off of Toilet's bed.  I tell him he has to move.  And he doesn't listen to me.  This pisses Toilet off and he says something to the effect of "I'll fucking kill you."  I don't really remember, but I recall it being commanding.  And besides, this guy is an ox and could destroy Greez.  Greez hears him and springs into awareness, moving to the floor.  Some random girl is on his bed. 

I mention the last part, about Toilet, because that may very well be me soon.  Heading back out into the drinking world, beyond my limits and what not.  My friend Luke is coming back this summer, and let's just say I can drink a lot, but not like it's my job.  Like, if you're in the military, you kill people for a living.  If you're Luke Koftan, you drink bitches under tables for a living.  This man keeps drinking after he has won drinking contests.  People actually tell him, "You don't have to drink anymore, you know." 

"FUCK YOU," is his response.  So, I have some catching up to do.  With a family history of alcoholism and my Irish heritage, here's to the last sane story I ever tell. 

    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.)

I walk into the room across the hall from me and start pointing out character flaws.  Everyone inside is fixated on the screen, where two battling figures dance in and out of combat.  I point to Eric, the guy who sleeps in that room, and call him "too gamery."  I pick on him, saying I used to be gamery, but now I go to the gym and better myself.
"At least you're not one of those asshole gamers," I inform him.  I move on to Vanessa.  She's too opinionated. Johnny doesn't get out enough. Brendan is creepy. "You're a creepy mother fucker" is what I say.  Later, I sneak up behind him to emulate what he does to people.  Sneaks up on them.  Maybe not on purpose, but definitely on awkward.  This is Hunter.  Drunk Hunter.  He's kind of an asshole, and he definitely lacks a filter.  Not only for words, but apparently rice and red fruit juice.

A simple bottle of Odesse vodka completely consumed.  Not just by me, but mostly so.  My original intentions probably would have killed me.  Split the handle between me and this cute girl from the dorm. Yes, 50% of 40% in a short time = deadly.  Luckily, a friend from the dorm valiantly takes one for the team(or just my well-being) and helps us consume the substance.  By this point, I'd guage my intoxication at Boisterous Drunk, feverishly working my way to Raving Lunatic. 

At some point everyone leaves, and Raving Lunatic actually turns out to be Stumbles McPassout.  Yeah, I remove my shoes, fall on my bed, and die.

Reborn around 2PM the next day, I am still not cleansed of my intoxication.  I was still drunk, and liquids were sloshing in my stomach.  Oh yeah, you know where this is going.  And I did too on the bus back from our Dining Hall. The warning was something so typical and characteristic-- putting my forehead in my upward palms, stating "Oh God."  As soon as those two words passed through my lips, I knew what was coming next. 

The metallic tasting primer saturates my mouth, and I grit my teeth to hold back the flood gates.  Johnny and I are one stop from our dorm.  The doors open and the bus seems to rock for a second.  I watch people board and see them as  potential victims of my puke blast radius.  I cannot throw up on the bus.  My body cannot hold it back.  I contemplate these two conflicting ideas for nearly too long.  The engine revs up and the doors will close in a second.  I charge upward and outward, telling Johnny that I'm walking the rest of the way.  He doesn't understand my mumblings until seconds later he connects my statement with the sound of splattering rice, chicken, and red fruit juice on the paved sidewalk.  The two girls in front of me fall prey to my fluids, turning, and quickly sidestepping the second wave.  Feeling  immediately better, I quickly stand up to save what little face I have left.  Bad move, I puke some more.  Take three steps, puke.  Walk up to a bench, where a man in a green fleece sits.  I puke all over the place by his feet.  It looks like blood, and he looks pissed.  He doesn't say anything, though. 

Four times, four different puddles.  Johnny walks up from the last bus stop to see if I'm alive.  I am.  I say to him that I drank way too much last night.  Starting around 7PM and well into the morning hours, I know I've over-done it.  Again.  Because my character flaw is burning up, using up, and taking things to the extreme when they can be taken in moderation and still enjoyed.  It's like the economy.  Low times are forced so as to keep a moderate balance.  If the economy is growing too strong, it will inevitably fail and fall into desperate lows.  Thus, a tight wave pattern or frequency from one end to the next.  To regulate.  Regulation is something I understand.  Moderation I get.  But acting on them may never be something I'm good at.  I will always burn up rather than rust out.

    The past few days, everyone's been having the same conversation.  A fire alarm went off.  If you know anyone from the Cabaniss dorms down here at VCU, you know the story.  I hear the same fucking complaints about burnt soup everywhere I go.  On the bus.  In the dining hall.  In class. 
In the bathroom, two guys sit and converse through the blue panels surrounding their respective toilets.  They're talking about the goddamn fire alarm.  The fire alarm caused by soup.
 
    Some girl on an upper floor burns soup and causes this whole ordeal.  On the bus to class, some guy questioned the possibility of burning a liquid, as if all liquids share the same exact qualities found in water.  He doesn't understand the dire situation our nation is facing with such non-water-esque liquids.  He doesn't understand fire.  He doesn't understand fire like I do. 

    Waiting for the bus, I read my book, foolishly leaving my knuckles exposed for anyone to see.  Thomas walks by and asks me what happened to my hand. 
"Bloody knuckles," I tell him, dissmission coating my voice.  I find that straightforward answers held with little regard yield the best avoidance possibility when dealing with outsiders-- those not in the know, in my life, in my head.  The lesser tiers of my involvement.

    Earlier, I met Devon, the tall guy on my floor with the long hair, outside of my math lecture building.  I sit down next to him and ask him whether the imminent test is scantron. No, he says, not scantron.  No, I say, I guess it's just "papertron."  A failed jab at something clever.  The girl mirroring me on Devon's other side asks what happened to my hand.  Before I can bullshit her, she hands me a crutch to lean on--"'Bloody Knuckles' or somethin'?"
    "Yeah," I say, agreeing with her.  People like to think they're good at knowing what's going on in other people's lives.  If people speculate, I let them guess correctly every time.  You got in a fight? Yeah. You punched a wall? Yep, it looked at me funny.  You played "Bloody Knuckles"? Of course, it's my favorite game.  

    The truth is, though, that none of those are true.  I'm not bleeding, I'm pussing.  Pussing the ever living shit out of my unhealing hand and arm.  It looks like a battlefield, my arm.  My mind too, if it were visibly available to me.  No, I just feel it.  A dull roar of cognition.  A dull infrastructure of senses and reactions.  My system. Me. 

    My point is, if you keep your mouth shut and don't suggest things, hand over your ideas, people may be more willing, or more pressured to surrender the truth.  The truth is a self-generated understanding of the universe, and as soon as you have interfering factors, like a ditzy blonde who says "'Bloody Knuckles' or somethin'?"  you have a chance to skew that universe, to blur it.  To take an image and sodomize it with falsehood.  False enough to the point where I'm lying twice.  Bloody Knuckles?  I've never even played that game.  Great, blondy, now you have me lying about having played this sophomoric game TODAY and ever.  Thanks a lot, you genesis of lies. You sssserpent of deceit. 

    So, before it is questioned, I do stupid things when I'm drunk.  To myself.  Several times.  Again and again.  I'm fascinated by the utter lack of pain during intoxication.  A quick swipe of fire normally will not hurt you.  A longer duration of exposure to it, however, will.  And, if it doesn't feel like it's hurting, the scars and bulging skin balloons of puss will tell you otherwise the next day.  So, I'm sorry to You and Me both, for causing these second degree burns.

Also, fuck cigarettes.    

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.    

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?"

There's a story I need to write about. It's nothing too spectacular, but a good example of the phrase, "the best way to get over one guy is to get under another one."

    A few months ago, my friend Horatio decides to have a party at his house. He tells a handfull of people that his house will be empty on an upcoming Friday, leaving the bulk of the invites for the day-of. A number of things botch this contrived plan, namely a physics project that takes him and his group nearly 6 hours of work.

    The entire time the project is going on, I'm slowly wedging myself into conversation with this one girl, who we'll call "Lebanon" because she's mostly Lebanese. A break occurrs after about 2 or 3 hours of wasted time because this girl complains about being hungry. At Wendy's, I make a point to sit across from her, and we commence in playing the game, discussing eating habits as a start, which, in her case was inclusive of bitching about not having food and then proceeding to eat none of it. By the time we make our way back to Horatio's so they can "finish" the project, I've well established myself with this girl, now able to shoot the shit with ease.

    At around 8 or 9, they're still doing their project and people start showing up. The project basically falls apart and there's shit everywhere. It's one of those Rue-Goldberg things, so you've got random wooden blocks scattered on the kitchen floor, a giant robot standing guard on a stool with string hanging from the ceiling-fan. It was very intricate. And an all around failure. My contribution? I laughed at them when they failed to crush a can with a text book.

    The 3 or so dudes Horatio invited begin getting restless, so I head outside with a handle of Vodka. They flock to me like hobos around a trash-can-fire seeking warmth. Here I use a favorite drinking-trick of mine-- THE HUNTER SHOT--An unbridled chug-fest. Merely tilt the handle all the way back and chug. Having astonished these 3 pukes with my badass Irish heritage, I head back inside for some shots, and to potentially laugh at Horatio and his project partners for being failures. I refrain from the latter, but only because the former is taking precedence.

    My friend Yetti(he's the tallest and fittest of my friends, with 15-20 pounds on me) starts drinking with me and we somehow come to the conclusion that I'll keep 2 shots behind him, starting at zero and not counting my previous HUNTER SHOT and minor shots, so that I can keep pace with the weight differential. Basically science.

    I sit with Lebanon and Tara(another of the physics group), and tell them they should definitely stay and bring friends, because the party is clearly suffering a bad ratio. At this point: SEVEN guys, TWO girls. Conclusion: Sausagefest.

    Tara eventually weasles her way out of staying, promising me that she'll come back with friends, even if they're ugly, which, one knows only matters a little bit when drinking. We didn't see Tara again that night.

    I resume 'the game' with Lebanon outside on the deck, where we talk and watch Yetti shoot baskets. On six vodka shots, he's still making all of his basketball shots. He's loosened up enough to have no restraint when giving arm-crushing high-fives, though. He destroys my arm during a high five. My arm hurts, so I take a few shots to relieve my bone-shattering pain. Some kid is trying to climb up the shed out in the yard, but keeps falling on his ass. He earns the "Stupid Drunk of the Night" award. He also earns my hate, because I can't abide stupidity on the level of jumping in bushes, off of decks, climbing up sheds and all around being a jackass. It wouldn't be bad if he weren't doing it just to show off, but, in the end, that's what he was doing.

    Meanwhile, Horatio is running around keeping tabs on people in his house, making sure no one puked on or destroyed anything. He's not really enjoying himself, I can tell, because apparently some kids came to this get-together(yes, downgraded from "party" status) thinking that they'd be running around with lampshades on their heads, screaming and smashing shit. But they were wrong. I don't know what it is about some people that makes them inclined to be the Lampshade Guy-- the person with the lampshade on their head who does the hip-and-finger-dance, screaming, "Wooo, yeeeeah, woooo!" I usually just like hanging out with people when I'm drinking. Talking. That sort of thing.

    PK shows up. Man Count: EIGHT. Dropping him off is this kid "Frenchie." Man Count: NINE. We skirt around the issue that he and Lebanon had, before this day, been seriously dating. "I'm getting fucked tonight" is his comment about the party he's about to go to and about him getting over her. I show restraint in not telling him that I was on the verge of hooking up with his ex.

    Anyway, this get-together is officially a failure. But I'm okay with that, because there I am about to hook up with the only girl there. (And, I don't know if you know what that means, but I do.  It's like the first law of scarcity flipped on its head.  The First Law of Scarcity states that when there is less of something, its value increases.  Now, when you have a plethora of things to choose from, and you choose me, that means I am the best choice.  Nine guys and I win? Booyah.) And after taking her to her house so that she could drop off her car and sneak out, I did. Well, sort of. After a bit more drinking and hanging out, Lebanon and I find a nice bed upstairs to use for whatever our bodies desire. Which, in this case, was only making out, and I'll tell you why.

    I PULLED THE NICE GUY CARD OUT OF THE DECK, ASKING HER IF SHE WAS OKAY WITH THE SPEED AT WHICH WE WERE GOING! Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was considering the fact that she was vulnerable from her break up.

written July 16th, 2006