Restructured to make a little more sense.  Still haven't gone chronological, though.  Everything that has been added in this iteration of the compendium has (new) next to it.  Six (new)'s under non-fiction and five (new)'s under other.  So, eleven entries worth putting on the revised compendium.  The last time I did one of these was about this time last year.  Not a good sign.

Non-fiction Stories(with no organization whatsoever):
(new)You're Creepy, Hunter - A girl tells me I am creepy.  I get even.

(new)Phoenix - I don't think I am supposed to write about something that is supposed to be anonymous.  Oh well.

(new)Strange Format - Saturday Show   -  Seriously the strangest format or lack thereof I have ever used.  Almost like a poem.  I've bad luck and things get out of hand.

(new)Graham's 21st Birthday - "No, dude, we're walking home.  It's like two blocks."

(new)Dead Cicada - A woman is assaulted while holding her child.  I intercede.

(new)A Warning - First Friday's in Richmond!

Salvia Gets Too Real - Fourth and worst trip on Salvia.

The Most Puke I Have Ever Seen - Imagine this next scene.  Try to visualize it with me.  My eyes open to the ceiling, my body shocked out of deep REM sleep.  My legs and waist are moist. . .

Drunk People - An interesting twist-- I'm not drunk in this story. For once in my life.

Black and Mild - I'll miss drinking with friends on top of the roof at my old apartment.  I will miss that Mediterranean market, with its natural soaps and cheap spices.  I will miss all those families who called the cops on me when I played music too loud on Monday nights.  Ahh

Hunter Takes it to the Limit, Throws Up Everywhere - In The Top Five Drunkest Nights

Pissing in Pools I & II - My double standard on people who pee in pools.

A Retelling of the First Time I Smoked

A Trip To Walmart - Seriously one of the best destinations while high.  Interesting, entertaining, sometimes a little creepy.

To Move My Body - When reality sinks in, when you think you've got nothing, you become psychic, telepathic, and shameless. This story has procession of Segways!

The Things I Remember - I somehow wake up at 2PM in my dorm, still drunk from the night before.  A rough bus ride does me in.

Hunter Blacks Out, Goes To Patient First, Blames Free Beer - Pretty self explanatory.

A Tucker Emulation, It Seems - The very first story I wrote.

Handcuffed, Robbed, and 6 O'clock Rush - Pretty self-explanatory.  Breakfast club.

Hunter Gets High, Driving Barely Ensues - I get high, and drive.  Sort of.

Lebanese: A "Nice Guy" Failure - Nine Guys, One Girl.  I get the girl and ride off into the sunset(upstairs), but turn out to be a "nice guy."

JMU, PART I - The first and, since, only time I have been breathalyzed.  There is no part II.  Part II would be better though, as it includes doing mushrooms, a starving French guy, five plus parties, nearly getting run over, really drunk chicks with australian accents, and BLOODHOUNDS.  But this story has none of that.

THE WEEKEND - A three day bender, with a decadent interlude of cheating debauchery.  All set to the soundtrack of the very trite Garden State. 

Bloody in '08 - A New Year story, complete with someone who attempts to smash a full, unopened champagne bottle over his head.

Perfect Night Ruined by Marriot, Morning -- This story is far too long to hold your attention.  Do not read it.

Short(or long) Stories(Fiction):

Saint Dympna - My favorite.

The Sink at Sunset - Guy has mobile home of a heart.  This is life at 20.

Shells - My drug induced interpretation of the scramble suits in A Scanner Darkly caused this short.  Later turned into a short fiction piece (for a class) called Mise en Place or The Writer.

Nine-Tenths is Nothing - Our children are here to replace us.  One man attempts to slow this process by proving he is better than them and protecting his wife from kid perverts. 

The Last Boat to the Disappearing - A seven vignette fiction piece about flaming zombies.  As much as I wish I had written them gay, they are actually on fire.

Story Starter Exercise - A brief story about a friend who got kicked up and did a lot of drugs while living in the woods.
 

Other:
(new)At The Edge of The Neighborhood - Vivid zombie dream.

(new)Shut Down or Reset - Up late? Two options.  Special bonus feature: scene from this year's Best Friends Day @ Hadad's

(new)A Haiku - About a day I spent at the river getting drunk with someone I didn't know.  She was taken and I fell and cut myself on a rock.  Then there is a sexual allegory at the end.  There, I ruined it.

(new)My First Near-Ticket on a Bicycle

(new)Autumn - The Greatest and Best Time of Year

Can Blood Cells Have Car Accidents? - Thoughts after the fire.

Janus - Girl cheats on me.  Girl dies in short story Sink at Sunset.

Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part I  -- I test my voice recorder during a toking session.  Heavy on the dialogue.

Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part II -- The better half of the overall recording experience.  A lot of in depth high conversation. 

Friend's Mom Finds Out About Hunter's Livejournal, Missiles Fly - Probably one of the more significant events in the history of my online writing.

Under a Hot Chicago Sun - I didn't even know my neighbors name.

H-D-P-E Does Not Spell "Hope"  -  Recycling is hopeful.  I am not.

It Is Only Hubris If I Fail - Childhood with a heavy dose of failure, sprinkled with Sloane Crosley.

Sick Dream D.A.N.C.E. - Dreams are fun.  Dreams about partying and religious fanatics that all have the same face... strange.  Sick dreams are most disturbing.

Rape, Tacos, and Love - I get raped, noticed for my writing at a party, have sex for the first time high, eat really good tacos, and listen in on a nasty girl shit.

Tainted Elephant Oil Prices Dowsed in Sickly-Sweat-Stained Dreams - More sick dreams, musings on family life and relationships.

Zombie Christ Day

Metal Shows - Are awesome.  Especially when you know the band.  Even if it's at a lame venue. 

Derelict Father, Are We the Cause of Our Suffering?

Shit's Run Its Course - I inherit a bike from a metal head who stole it from a crack head.

The Bear, The Bee, The Rhino - I connect with mother nature, understand things I never thought possible.

Night Luck - I have only gotten in trouble with the law when sober.  Sobriety really takes the spine out of me.

Condom Debacle - A young Hunter hides a partially used condom in duct-tape.

Jesus Freaks - I lament about my hatred for street-preachers.  This is a Facebook classic.

Bloody Knuckles - It wasn't a game that gave me these.

Diphenhydramine - The first time I ever tripped on a deliriant.

Bulgarians are Hardcore - Intoxicated 5 times the lethal limit, this Bulgarian gets hit by a car and sent to the hospital for minor head trauma.

A Little Funny and The Encroaching

Sunchips? - Do you know why they call them sunchips?

LIRICKES -  The funniest rap "lirickes" you'll read all week.

The Binary Universe and How Choice Works  -  With diagrams and shit.

Poems - A little too sing-songy.

Soundscape - High times.

The Nature of Souls and Soulmates - Got a decent response for this one.

Scanner Darkly and the Universe as a Vague Set of Prepositions

Demon Play, Demon Out - Your shoes are not an extension of anything that matters to your person.

Clocked Out - A New Year - 2007.  Some things get better, other things are mentioned less.

New - I miss writing.

The other night I got called creepy and I really wish I had had a voice recorder on me.  Because I didn't and have no idea what exactly was said, this is a dramatization.

The other night my friend invites me out.  My link to her group is shaky because I hook up with one of their friends and proceed to hit on, while drunk and via text, another one later on. 

Via Text calls me outright creepy, so I begin following her asking her why I am creepy- my actions a self-replicating definition of the word. 

I talk to her through the bathroom door.

"Why am I creepy?"
"Oh my god, are you seriously outside of the bathroom?"

I follow her outside.

"Why am I creepy?" a hint of hurt in my voice.  Who wants to be creepy?
She turns and scowls, says, "You want to know why you're creepy?"  She gets all close staring at me, then breaks and says to follow her.
"Yeah, let's talk over there," I agree, not wanting to be outed as a creepy person in front of presumably non-creepy people.

We sit next to each other on narrow, warped stairs.  Moonlight and bulbs bear down.  I think, this is creepy.  She says I text her when I'm drunk and ask her to hang out, which never happens.  I figure this is more "unreliable" than anything else but she continues to berate my character. 

I feel this is unfair.  I must now get back at her by actually being creepy to her, openly, in front of everyone.

At one point I have the guy next to me looking all physically uncomfortable or offended at what I'm saying.  He is in the middle of introducing himself(and thusly hitting on her) when I interrupt, telling him this girl is bad news, that she broke my heart, had my abortion.  All of which, except maybe the first one, are untrue.  Out loud I imagine how our relationship ended.  I pass this as truth like a delusional person.  Whatever I say at this moment makes the guy uncomfortable.  Via just stands there and shakes her head. 

The guy trying to hit on her attempts to make fun of me.  This is impossible.  I am so imperviously in creepy character that everything he says turns into another offensive and sketchy joke about my faux-love for this girl.  
 
I start harassing Via about going out for coffee.  She says she leaves in a week for good.  I repeat, "and it won't go anywhere, so just come out for coffee with me.  We can make it reeeeal public."  Someone suggests I should try to play with her hair.
"What's the point?" her eyes ask the same thing.

Some time passes. 

I try to reclaim sunglasses I left at my friend's house months ago.  She says they look better on her.  They do.  I am no longer upset about losing them.  I now feel bad for blaming my roommate for losing/breaking/selling them/whatever.  My friend has awesome hair and jumps on my back for a totally one-sided chicken fight. 

Some time passes and the group turns against me.  I hurry to unlock my bike and leave.  Via says something like Take Your Creeper Ass Somewhere Else or You're Insane or whatever.  I don't remember.  As I am riding away-- and I remember this-- she says, "For the record, I don't really think you're creepy."

I say, "Whatever, you are!" and nearly crash my bike into a trashcan.

This is a collection of things I have written that I think are at least half worth putting back up.  Since last I did one of these, I have added two short stories and maybe ten other forms of writing.  With 19 solid "Stories,"  7 short fiction pieces, and over 25 others, I would like to think that what I do for enjoyment is steadily becoming something I could do for money.  Years down the road, that is.  Enjoy.

STORIES(with no organization whatsoever):
Salvia Gets Too Real - Fourth and worst trip on Salvia.

The Most Puke I Have Ever Seen - Imagine this next scene.  Try to visualize it with me.  My eyes open to the ceiling, my body shocked out of deep REM sleep.  My legs and waist are moist. . .

Perfect Night Ruined by Marriot, Morning -- It turns out that drinking in the dorms is a bad plan.  But, for me, I have a great night, only to have it ruined by a morning hangover and the loss of my license. 

Hunter Takes it to the Limit, Throws Up Everywhere - In The Top Five Drunkest Nights

JMU, PART I - The first and, since, only time I have been breathalyzed.  There is no part II.  Part II would be better though, as it includes doing mushrooms, a starving French guy, five plus parties, nearly getting run over, really drunk chicks with australian accents, and BLOODHOUNDS.  But this story has none of that.

Pissing in Pools I & II - My double standard on people who pee in pools.

To Move My Body - When reality sinks in, when you think you've got nothing, you become psychic, telepathic, and shameless. This story has procession of Segways!

Hunter Blacks Out, Goes To Patient First, Blames Free Beer - Pretty self explanatory.

Drunk People - An interesting twist-- I'm not drunk in this story. For once in my life.

A Tucker Emulation, It Seems - The very first story I wrote.

The Things I Remember - I somehow wake up at 2PM in my dorm, still drunk from the night before.  A rough bus ride does me in.

Handcuffed, Robbed, and 6 O'clock Rush - Pretty self-explanatory.  Breakfast club.

Hunter Gets High, Driving Barely Ensues - I get high, and drive.  Sort of.

Lebanese: A "Nice Guy" Failure - Nine Guys, One Girl.  I get the girl and ride off into the sunset(upstairs), but turn out to be a "nice guy."

A Trip To Walmart - Seriously one of the best destinations while high.  Interesting, entertaining, sometimes a little creepy.

A Retelling of the First Time I Smoked

THE WEEKEND - A three day bender, with a decadent interlude of cheating debauchery.  All set to the soundtrack of the very trite Garden State. 

Rape, Tacos, and Love - I get raped, noticed for my writing at a party, have sex for the first time high, eat really good tacos, and listen in on a nasty girl shit.

Bloody in '08 - A New Year story, complete with someone who attempts to smash a full, unopened champagne bottle over his head.

Short(or long) Stories(Fiction):

Nine-Tenths is Nothing - Our children are here to replace us.  One man attempts to slow this process by proving he is better than them and protecting his wife from kid perverts. 

Saint Dympna - My favorite.

The Sink at Sunset - Guy has mobile home of a heart.  This is life at 20.

Shells - My drug induced interpretation of the scramble suits in A Scanner Darkly caused this short.  Later turned into a short fiction piece (for a class) called Mise en Place or The Writer.

The Last Boat to the Disappearing - A seven vignette fiction piece about flaming zombies.  As much as I wish I had written them gay, they are actually on fire.

Solipsism - A creation story.  A story with Robots and Gods and space battles.  A story with a twist.  A story that kind of sucks, but has novelty.

Story Starter Exercise - A brief story about a friend who got kicked up and did a lot of drugs while living in the woods.
 

Some others:

Can Blood Cells Have Car Accidents? - Thoughts after the fire.

Janus - Girl cheats on me.  Girl dies in short story Sink at Sunset.

Black and Mild - I'll miss drinking with friends on top of the roof at my old apartment.  I will miss that Mediterranean market, with its natural soaps and cheap spices.  I will miss all those families who called the cops on me when I played music too loud on Monday nights.  Ahh

Under a Hot Chicago Sun - I didn't even know my neighbors name.

H-D-P-E Does Not Spell "Hope"  -  Recycling is hopeful.  I am not.

It Is Only Hubris If I Fail - Childhood with a heavy dose of failure, sprinkled with Sloane Crosley.

Sick Dream D.A.N.C.E. - Dreams are fun.  Dreams about partying and religious fanatics that all have the same face... strange.  Sick dreams are most disturbing.

Tainted Elephant Oil Prices Dowsed in Sickly-Sweat-Stained Dreams - More sick dreams, musings on family life and relationships.

Zombie Christ Day

Metal Shows - Are awesome.  Especially when you know the band.  Even if it's at a lame venue. 

Derelict Father, Are We the Cause of Our Suffering?

Shit's Run Its Course - I inherit a bike from a metal head who stole it from a crack head.

The Bear, The Bee, The Rhino - I connect with mother nature, understand things I never thought possible.

Night Luck - I have only gotten in trouble with the law when sober.  Sobriety really takes the spine out of me.

Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part I  -- I test my voice recorder during a toking session.  Heavy on the dialogue.

Transcribing the Knowledge of The Smoke, Part II -- The better half of the overall recording experience.  A lot of in depth high conversation. 

Friend's Mom Finds Out About Hunter's Livejournal, Missiles Fly - Probably one of the more significant events in the history of my online writing.

Jesus Freaks - I lament about my hatred for street-preachers.  This is a Facebook classic.

Bloody Knuckles - It wasn't a game that gave me these.

Diphenhydramine - The first time I ever tripped on a deliriant.

Bulgarians are Hardcore - Intoxicated 5 times the lethal limit, this Bulgarian gets hit by a car and sent to the hospital for minor head trauma.

A Little Funny and The Encroaching

Sunchips? - Do you know why they call them sunchips?

LIRICKES -  The funniest rap "lirickes" you'll read all week.

The Binary Universe and How Choice Works  -  With diagrams and shit.

Poems - A little too sing-songy.

Soundscape - High times.

The Nature of Souls and Soulmates - Got a decent response for this one.

Condom Debacle - A young Hunter hides a partially used condom in duct-tape.

Scanner Darkly and the Universe as a Vague Set of Prepositions

Demon Play, Demon Out - Your shoes are not an extension of anything that matters to your person.

Clocked Out - A New Year - 2007.  Some things get better, other things are mentioned less.

New - I miss writing.

    There's this party last night that gets busted three or four doors down.  Clumps of drunk movie and comic book characters, celebrity and political icons, crowd the uneven brick sidewalk.  My roommate comes inside, drunk himself, telling me, "There's good stuff goin' on out here."  He bends down to pick up his inside-beer.  This guy has two possession charges, 50 hours of community service to do in his remaining three weeks on probation, and three tickets for reckless cycling.  Who knew not having reflectors was such a big deal.  Bike cocks cops. 
  
    After hearing about a scuffle between Poison Ivy and Jake(maybe?), Graham convinces me to step outside, sans-beer, to overhear the interrogation.  Some hippie with long golden hair and a viking beard(real), his name is Travis, and he sits crouched on our stoop.  Apparently, with his hands up, hands off, he tells us his friend hit a girl.  It's not his responsibility, he's going home now.  We wish him a good night. 

    Some Ethiopian bike cop explains the situation to Poison Ivy and Fran Drecer from the Nanny.  That irritating laugh, she has it down.  Anyway, Poison Ivy claims her friend got hit in the face by Hippie Travis' friend, Jake or something.  Jake Or Something tells the cops, get this, Poison Ivy swung at him.  Not the other way around.  Now, if this were a Batman comic/movie and not a costume party, and you were stomping blades of grass or cutting up plant life, maybe.  Maybe.  But, really, dude?  Really? 

    It's like when this girl I'm seeing, and we won't name names, constantly puts herself in compromising positions and gets surprised when something bad happens.  Waking up naked with a dude that isn't me.  All I can say is, I'm not your fucking baby sitter, so stop relying on me like a child does a parent.  Also, get tested. 
    It's funny how people can turn it around.  I remember this girl in highschool.  A guy I know dates her.  One day she goes over to this guy's house-- Fish, they call him.  Tag football quickly turns into rape.  Rape quickly turns into, "It never happened, [Boyfriend's Name]."  It Never Happened quickly turns into, "It was just in the butt."  So, who knows what happened but the two of them.  That girl goes on to be a born again virgin. 

    This girl I was seeing, she will undoubtedly continue to binge drink and rely on other people to take care of her hobbled legs, open mouth, and gaping heart.  At least I killed off her character in my story.  Call it foresight.  Call it hopeful thinking.  Once trust is broken like that. . .

    It is unfortunate for me, I have the same stain on my soul. 

     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.  

So, I read this article a long time ago and was telling the story to my friend Sean.  Of course, I got the facts wrong, saying, "5 times the lethal limit," and that the pedestrian was from Indonesia.  But, here's the real thing, it's nuts:

" A Bulgarian man presented at the local emergency room with a blood alcohol level so high the doctors checked the level 5 times. The man had a reading of 0.914, or more that 10 times what would be considered drunk in most states. Lethal blood alcohol levels usually occur at the 0.55 level. In most areas 0.08 is considered legally impaired. The man was conscious and able to communicate."

http://www.atsnn.com/article/109318

This is mainly the story of my birthday party, the recognition of a problem, and the end to my alcoholism.  I cannot believe I just wrote that.

The Girlfriend(this part is mostly background)

    The first time I met her we were outside the dorm during a firedrill.  It was a beautiful day outside.  The sky was blue with ethereal plumes of white.  It was beautiful.  Just not as much as what I was in store for.  She was the most attractive thing I had ever seen, her big Italian eyes and cute little Jew nose.   Our eyes locked briefly, but I disengaged, because, hell, I was "dating"(fucking) another girl at the time.  Though I was considering "breaking up" with her because she was a total psychotic bitch, I wasn't about to do her the injustice of cheating on her.  I still find that to be the worst thing you can do to someone's trust.  I would later learn that the girl I was dating was a cheating whore and an all around liar.  I didn't care at the time of learning this as I was completely happy just being AWAY from her.  Seriously, she gave me her family history while we were lying in bed one night and this is what I got out of it--MOTHER: Manic Depressive, OCD.  GRANDMOTHER: BLEW HER HUSBAND'S HEAD OFF WITH A FUCKING TWELVE GUAGE.  JESUS CHRIST.

    So, there I am, separated from this gorgeous girl by nothing more than my unwillingness to even consider but one person at a time when John walks up and starts talking to her.  John and I have hung out recently.  Fuck it, I am in.  I go over and act like my normal boisterous and happy self.  She is sarcastic and very funny.   We are visibly into eachother already.  This is basically the straw that breaks the proverbial camel's back.  I invite both of them to a party I am attending, mostly so I can hang out with this girl some more. Luckily, they both decline.  The reason this is lucky, and the thing I haven't told you is, it was at "Crazy's" apartment-- then my girlfriend.  Yes, them showing up would have ended terribly.  Instead, I go to the party alone, get excessively drunk, am unhappy, and burn myself with a cigarette.  More times than I want to count.   That's the story behind Bloody Knuckles.  Me burning myself.  Crazy makes fun of me the next day and I quickly dump her ass. 

    The first time I actually hung out with Sara, I was already trashed(see: The Things I Remember, same night) when she showed up.  She comes in and I'm throttling a handle of vodka, swaying back and forth, singing Richard Cheese songs.  If you don't know who Richard Cheese is, he is a cover artist who redoes popular songs in a lounge style.  He was instantly my hero after I heard his rendition of "Down With The Sickness" in the Dawn of the Dead remake.  I don't actually remember much about this night, as I have already downed about a third of the handle already, continuing to drink well into the night.  All I remember is having a really intense conversation.  Sara makes fun of me hardcore for singing and liking Richard Cheese.  I make fun of her for liking Dream Theatre, because Alexi Laiho(lead for Children of Bodom)  said they were gay, and if Alexi says it, it is true.  She tells me my music collection blows.  I attempt to argue that it doesn't, but ultimately lose.  She has a huge proclivity for music that I cannot ever hope to match.

    In the weeks that follow, I am awkward.  I have never been more awkward around a person in my life.  This is because I have never been so unsure of where I stand with a person than when I first started seeing her.  Luckily, she is awkward too, and it works out.  We start dating but continue the awkwardness for a short while.  Eventually we loosen up.  At some point she tells me how weird it is to be the witness to self-mutilation, or, rather, the results of it(my scars).  She seems worried, and I jokingly say, "What, you care about me?"  She says she does, and I am totally knocked off my proverbial feet.  A sledgehammer shattering my mental shins, sweeping me to the floor.  For much of my time with her I have been emotionally reticent.  I have seen the damage caused by opening up too soon, too fast.  I know my behavior, I know that I burn up to avoid rusting out.  This is who I am usually.  But I want to change.

    I tell Sara that I'm done hurting myself, because I am happy now.  But just being with someone doesn't make you happy.  I now realize that happiness comes only from within.  It is, to some extent, a choice of contexts.  Only you can put yourself in a position that will either improve or detriment you.  At the time I tell Sara I am done hurting myself, I have not learned this lesson-- the "how to" on happiness.  At the time I tell Sara I am done hurting myself, I am not. 

The Birthday Party

Skip a few weeks later to my birthday party.

    Horatio and I get his brother to hook us up with some beer.  And by some beer, I mean four fucking cases.  We load Horatio's car with the beer.  Inside the car, he tosses me a water bottle full of clear liquid, saying, "Happy Birthday, enjoy."  It is vodka.  Horatio is my best friend.  I take a swig and wince.  It has been awhile.  I figure I'll need some mixer and food in my stomach before we head to the party.  We drive to Sheetz. 

    En route, Horatio goes, "There are beers under your seat from the other night.  Beer me."  I hand him his first Natty swill.  He nearly downs it before we reach Sheetz.  He does down it immediately following Sheetz.  I have a huge burger in my face, and am not worried about regulating his driving. 

    His second beer is done and he begins to "feel it."  I am worried about regulating his driving. I begin the "double-check" method.  He is drinking his third beer with one hand and driving half-heartedly with the other.  I get the idea that I might die tonight.  I got this idea much earlier in the week when I was told how much alcohol would be at my party.  I figured alcohol poisoning would do me in, but now I am worried about becoming a roadside cadaver.  I quickly forget this as I drink more of my Gatorade/Vodka mix. 

    We drive around for awhile trying to find a parking spot.  Richmond parking sucks.  Horatio announces, several times, that he has to urinate.  I begin torturing him, saying "Drip, drip, drip.  Pssssss."  I decide that this is a bad idea since he is driving.  Finally we find a spot to rest the car.  We are in front of a very nice town home with a large street lamp blaring above us.  We are not far from a stoplight, where an audience of drivers no doubt watch us.  Horatio says he is going to pee on his car:
Hunter: "Dude, for real? Right here?  You can't wait?"
Horatio:  "Fuck it, I don't care, man, I have to piss."
Hunter:  "There's a huge lamp above you.  We are completely visible.  And have beer.  And are underage.  We don't want to draw attention to ourselves."
These were all quality reasons not to publicly urinate, but in the most serious voice I've ever heard him deliver anything, he says, with a slight pause:
Horatio: "... Back up, lest you get pissed on."

I don't know why, but I grab three of the cases.  I start walking across the street.  Horatio says, "Wait up," finishes pissing, and downs the last of his third or fourth beer.   A couple of minutes into our five(or so) minute walk(Richmond parking sucks, remember?) to the apartment, having two cases in one arm is a ridiculous waste.  I insist Horatio take one.  He does, and now we both have two.  He says he feels badass just walking around with beer.  I tell him this is how it feels to "bring the party."  He gets pumped and I immediately remember why I only left one case for him to carry.  Holding the handle, he juts his fist outward, pretending the beer case is a boxing glove or something.  The handle remains in his hand while the rest of the case sails through the air and smashes into the sidewalk.  We just stand there for a moment. We start gathering the scattered beer cans.  Some of them are rolling away from us, trying to escape:
Hunter:  "Why was that a good idea."
Horatio:  "I don't know, I'm already drunk, I think." (The "Drunk Defense")
Hunter:  "Good enough."
Horatio:  "No one can know about this."
Hunter:  "Alright. We'll just let them explode on some people."

    We head upstairs and are immediately rushed by everyone inside.  I am bombarded with "Happy Birthday" and such and what not.  This makes me happy.  In my vodka glow, I am already the center of the universe.  Awesome. After awhile though, I find myself having an iteration of the following conversation... throughout the ENTIRE NIGHT:
Rebecca:  "Hunter, your arm looks like fucking hell."

Adrian:  "Yeah, you should put bandaids on them, they'll heal"
Liz:  "What the hell did you do?"
Me:  "Lots of bad stuff."
Rebecca:  "Is this new or is this shit I've seen?"
Me:  "All old stuff"
Adrian(pointing to my cuts): "What did you do? Is that when you woke up bloody?"
Liz: "Yeah, what is that?"
I try to convince them that it was a cougar attack.  I then explain that the burns are from lye, like in Fight Club, and that it was a gang initiation.  Then I concede that I was playing chicken with cigarettes.  With myself.  They say I am crazy, and probably just like Tyler Durdin.

Some people enter and they wish me happy birthday.  I announce that I have no idea who one of them is.

    I go to the bathroom and Calypso(of Pissing in Pools I & II  and Hunter Blacks Out, Goes To Patient First, Blames Free Beer) tells me not to use the one I'm headed to.  I assure her I know what I am doing, and that I know the door jams.  I will leave it open.  I stay in there for like two minutes taking the most titanic piss of my life.  While I'm breaking the seal, I thank the toilet for drinking my piss.  Am I already this drunk?  Seven gargantuan cups of jungle juice in the first hour or so? Yes, yes I am this drunk.

    I come back and Horatio's brother has arrived.  I am enamored at the fact that such a cool motherfucker would grace me with his presence. He holds out his hand:
Hunter:  "Hold on, there were no fuckin' towels in there, give me a second."  I actually count out a full second Mississippi style and shake his hand.  I notice one of the guys accompanying him:
Hunter:  "Annnnd?"
Justin:  "Justin.  You don't remember me?"
Hunter:  "No.  What's your last name?"

    He implies that we once "chilled" together, sounding hurt.  Telling me what was involved with our "chilling" really helped.  Apparently we smoked together once.  I have no recollection of this, and therefore invoke the "High Defense."  He takes off his hat and gives me the "Ehhh, ehhh, anything?" look.  It doesn't help, but I do notice he has red hair, and therefore will fail to hit on any girl at the party.  It is a well documented fact that red headed guys generally do poorly with women.  True story.  He hits on Liz but ultimately comes up short.  She is one of the few girls Richmond produced that isn't a whore at all.  I can't help but respect her for that.

    I totally didn't catch this at the time, but in the background Horatio is lamenting about his ex-girlfriend.  He tells the story of how they were together.  Then how the romance was stifled by a grounding of a month-long duration.  He got grounded as a result of the Friend's Mom Finds Out About Hunter's Livejournal, Missiles Fly incident.  He blames his failed relationship on the grounding, and for mostly good reason.  His girlfriend and him couldn't see eachother, and he became what he refers to as a "Low Status Male," dumping his emotional issues on her. Because of this, he helped her transition to who she truly was.  Upon breaking up with him, she informs him that she is a lesbian.  As he tells this, the three or so girls he is talking to go into shrills and half-muttered explitives.  I hear several "OMIGOD's" in the pity tone.  Yeah, everyone feels bad for the "transition guy."  Seriously, if you are dating someone when they switch sides, that is indicative of you making them change their mind about their sexuality.  Of course, I know the truth.  The girl is a lying seductress of a woman, and Horatio is one of the coolest people I've ever met. 

The Recognition of a Problem and the Resolution to End Alcoholism

Yetti:  "No piggy-back rides tonight."
Apparently, a few nights ago, we were all drinking beer and I drank way too fast, getting myself well into Hyper-Hunter Drunk.  I jumped on Yetti's back and we both went careening into the asphalt.  He is like 6'5" and over 200 pounds.  I am like 6' and 180 pounds.  He is crushed under the inertia of our combined weight, and I, on his shoulders, fall like 10 feet to the ground.  We squirm around in pain for like thirty seconds before realizing we are intoxicated, and pain can't fetter us.

    I tell the story of how Horatio destroyed one of the cases of beer.  Someone overhears this from another room and asks which one is fucked up. 
Hunter:  "You see that one with the gaping hole in it?  Yeah, don't take beer from that one, it will explode all over you."
Liz:  "Who did that?"
Horatio: "Me, I can't feel my face already."
Hunter:  "Slow down there, you have all night."  I find this advice particularly funny because I am already working on being utterly shit-faced.

Calypso saunters over.
Calypso:  "Don't you like the Jungle Juice?"
Hunter:  "It's very good."
Adrian:  "It's very lime-y.  Did you put citrus in there?"
Calypso:  "Yeah."
Hunter:  "It's like, I wanna play some, like, tribal drums.  No, not really.  No,  I have no rythm."

    Rebecca comes along and says she can't feel her face, so I poke her cheek. 
Hunter:  "I can still feel your face, you're fine.  You're still with us."
Rebecca and Liz start talking to me about something, but my phone buzzes and I totally just walk away from them to answer.  I am sorry, girls, I guess I am an asshole.  That or I'm like anyone else when they're drunk, and I just go with whatever.  I have achieved Autopilot Drunk.

    I re-enter the room and Calypso is taking pictures.  I rush to shove my face into every picture taken.  Seriously, if you guys read this and have those pictures, please send them to me, or post them online. 

    I approach Liz:
Hunter:  "I heard you called me an asshole because of my stories online."
She grins and turns her head slightly.
Hunter:  "AH!  You can't deny it! See, that's the 'I can't deny it' face. OH!"
Liz:  "Can't deny it.  No, not going to either."
A small crowd erupts into "OOOH."  I say, "That hurts," jokingly, because there is no emotional pain you can inflict upon Raving Drunk Hunter that he won't embody in physical pain later.
She giggles.  Apparently hurting me is funny.
Horatio:  "Dude, there's nothing wrong with being an asshole!"
I almost contend that I am not an asshole, and someone backs me by saying, "He can't be an asshole, he has a beard."  I'm not sure how this logic works, but I did in fact have a beard.
I fully contend that I am a mix of "nice guy" and "asshole." 
Liz: "So you're half and half? You are fifty percent asshole, that's still pretty bad!"
Adrian: "He's part sex machine, as well."
Hunter: "This is true.  Thank you for reminding me.  But seriously, do you really think I am an asshole?  Like, back in the day?  Other than when I was on aderol.  Because, I would come in happy one day and an evil bastard the next."
Liz:  "That's true.  That applied, I don't necessarily think you.... I don't know, but you're looking at asshole as a bad thing."
This shocks me. 
Yetti:  "Girls like assholes."
It's true, to some extent.  Though, I still believe that some of the qualities of an asshole can be taken away, applied to a nice person, and you get the same results.  Confidence mainly, but, unlike an asshole, not overflowing with hubris.
 
    Across the room, Horatio announces to no one in particular, "Shit, it's not even eleven o'clock and I am already shit-faced."
I rally the forces to go out to eat somewhere, and we head out.  Unfortunately, with everyone's short attention spans, we only make it as far as Seven Eleven.  God damn convenience.  I stand, staring at the Chip and Dip section for about five minutes before grabbing a bag.  I tell Horatio what I'm getting-- chips and salsa.  He says he'll buy the salsa, but, seeing the price, and being the Jew he is, decides he wants to buy the chips.  I tell him I'll buy both, but he hands me the salsa.   "Okay," I say.  I don't even use real money, I just hand them my university debit card.  The next day, Horatio complains that the bag of chips was like four dollars.  I tell him the salsa was like three. 

    We get back and drink more. Everyone engages in eating my tostitos and dip.  I am like, "Didn't you fuckers buy anything for yourself?"  I guess there's a Jew in me too.  I start eating faster than anyone else, so as to get my money's worth.  I am shoveling salsa into my mouth, getting the impression that I might shit blood later as a result.  Alcohol and hot salsa do not mix well.  Deciding that I have an iron stomach, I push the idea of bloody diahrreah to the back of my head and grab another drink.  I am drinking unhappily, and decide to separate myself from the crowd.  I head outside with three cigarettes and a lighter.  I sit outside and smoke them, putting the last one out on my skin.  For awhile, I narrate my surroundings to no one but myself.  Realizing this, I immediately head back upstairs.  To drink more.  To drown out the recognition of a problem. 

    I wake up the next morning with three hours of sleep under my belt.  I am either still drunk or very hung over.  Horatio and I head out and he takes me to my dorm.  On the way, I rediscover my left-over gatorade-vodka concoction.  I don't want to waste it, so I drink it.  I get back to my dorm and never manage to go back to sleep.  The day passes slowly.  I take some sleeping pills at night and pass out. 

    The next day, I see Sara.  She grabs a CD and hands it to me, delivering a happy birthday.  It's Richard Cheese's Lounge Against the Machine.  I am enamored.  We chill for awhile and she notices my newly incinerated flesh.  She wasn't supposed to see that.  I feel bad because I told her I was going to stop.  It wasn't like one of those childish promises someone makes you swear an oath to, but I still broke my word.  And, if I can't trust myself, how can I ever hope to trust anyone else? This was my major realization.  I have to generate everything from within, for myself, before I can be happy with someone else.  Or make someone happy. 

    On that note,  I have decided to stop drinking in excess, at least until I can understand where the line is.  It's okay to cross it, as long as you acknowledge that it has been crossed.  First, I have to find it, to draw it. 

    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 am never sober in a group of drunk people.  I am either drunk in a group of drunk people, or not-drunk in a group of not-drunk people. Or drunk in a group of not-drunk people... Tonight was different.  Tonight was a new experience.  I mean, let's face it, there are only so many times I can iterate my drunken escapades before they become dull.  So, in this edition of my blog, we'll examine drunk specimens in their prime from an unaltered state of mind. 

I'm outside with my buddy "Das" smoking a cigarette because, I'll be honest, I wanted something to do at 2 in the morning and smoking seemed the only social avenue.  Pretty lame reason, but I'll get over it.  Apparently I wanted many things to do, as I smoked about 7 cigarettes over the course of however long it was we stood outside.  I'd say probably fourty minutes.  I don't normally smoke, but when I do, I smoke a lot.

Cigarette One: Das and I are outside and immediately engulfed in a sea of drunks.  We're new, so we're interesting.  We're greeted by people we know, "Psych" and "Greez", and people we don't, "NielsBohr" and a group of unimportant drunk chicks.  They would be important, but they were far from eye-candy, not to mention their conversation tool-box consisted exclusively of the Gossip-Hammer.  I would hope for at least one aspect or another in a human being.  They let me down. Our novelty wears off quickly and the unification we brought to the group rapidly disentigrates into several small factions.

Cigarette Two: I feel bad for bumming cigarettes off of Das, but then again, I got him and his friend drunk the other night. Also, he reassures me, saying he got a full carton for his birthday.  Justification enough for me. Nielsbohr is asking around for a cigarette. Psych throws up all over the place and pretends to do it incognito.  She fails, as everyone is now looking in her direction.  Only three of us are sober enough to care for more than three seconds.  Somegirl is making out with Somedude1.

Cigarette Three:  Realizing that the "circle" is an impenetrable fortress with no focus or cohesion, I give up my attempts to join the crowd and announce my retirement.  I sit next to "Theft," who aids me in my persuit to crack jokes on everyone who is acting ridiculous.  Thus, the main target, Somegirl.  She is now making out with Somedude2.  And eating his face. 

Cigarette Four: Greez doesn't want his clove, so he gives it to me. Technically, this time period, labled "Cigarette Four" should actually be "Clove One," but whatever.  It was my fourth smoke fuck you and your semantics. Nielsbohr has smoked both of the cigarettes he has gotten out of charity and is now asking people for more.

Cigarette Five:  Nielsbohr takes some drunk chick's pack of cigarettes and fumbles it into the river of puke laid forth by Psych.  He gathers up the cigarettes that have broken free of the pack, staggers upward, and offers me one.  I go, "Dude, you realize that's puke you just dropped those in, right?"  He looks down, and then back at the pack and shrugs. He is drunk and doesn't give a fuck.  I am not, and do. Luckily, he hands me the one resting on his ear.  I totally win the prize of a non-puke-laden cigarette. He then proceeds to smoke the entire pack.  I tell him he's going to get a disease and die, but he still doesn't give a fuck, because he's still drunk.  And off to the side, Somegirl is still biting the shit out of Somedude2's lips. Eating his face off.

Cigarette Six: Theft and I have turned our sobriety into a spectator's sport.  Somegirl has moved on to Greez(numero tres). A red-head shows up and isn't drunk. Theft, Das, this red-head, and myself form our own group.  We are not drunk, but definitely enjoying the show.

Cigarette Seven: Psych feels jealous, runs over, and shoves Somegirl out of the way, verbally declaring ownership of Greez, saying, "He's mine. I found him first."  They begin making out.  I wonder if she tastes like throw-up.  Defeated, Somegirl wobbles away and into the arms of the red-head. She's taken inside, but doesn't quite make it in before throwing up. Everyone is pretty much gone at this point, except the people that care enough for conversation, as opposed to passing out. 

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.