6 posts tagged “vodka”

Malcolm X was right.  If you approach people the right way, not begging for them to let you in-- but with confident resolve, you're golden.  Over the past couple of months, I've fallen in and out of this ideology.  Mostly out.  And, I never thought I would be doing or, even, witnessing some of the things going on in my life right now.  And the majority of where this comes from is hunger.  Not necessarily hunger for food, but a hunger for more or less.   More drugs, more money.  Less work, less trouble. 

And when I see that guy get robbed the other night, I think of how safe I am from the handgun, twenty diagonal feet away in a window.  A stray bullet could kill me, but it has a lot more space to go elsewhere.  And that guy on the ground, pleads, "Don't do this to me.  I have kids!"   But there's a lot of space, and closer to the point, time in that space for me to be that guy, sobbing on my ass, legs spread, hands pressed against my face as two dudes run, one telling the other, "Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up." 

We are all equally expendable.  At this age there are many of us who would believe we're invincible.  To a large extent, we only die from things like drunk driving, and for those, I feel bad for what you do to your families.  But there are other things.  Like being Christian and talking to girls about your fetishes.  That might kill you someday.  Or get you killed.  I mean, there should be some rule that, if you say you're following a religion and you don't, you should get some big punishment.  Maybe like a prison of fire, or something?  Am I missing something here? 

You heard it here first, I, Hunter Caldwell, would rather burn in hell than have to suffer the bullshit of some fabricated cloud-riding douche bag named God.  Everyone in hell, especially Dante's hell, is way cooler than any of those superficial fuckers in heaven.  But obviously I have a lot of irrational anger towards God.  Who doesn't exist.  I'm a crazy person, with invisible enemies.

Speaking of religion, though, I'm a little put off by a decision I made recently.  I can't wait until they come, because it's going to be cool.  Considering they're free, I'm not too uncertain of the decision.  They can say whatever you want, after all.  I could hand them out and let them tell people I am knighted and a physicist.  The cards I designed and ordered(for free)  will inform people that I am, in fact, a Writer, a PC TECHNICIAN(partially true), and, this is the best one, a taoist.       Now, I have read the Tao Te Ching, but that hardly qualifies me as a taoist. Or at least one that knows what they're talking about.  Maybe I can just tell people that the key to life is being supple instead of brittle.  Go with the flow, man.  Everything balances out, and nothing is as complicated as you make it.  The universe won't budge, but can provide.  Now let's meditate.

"Mr. Elijah Muhammed teaches his followers that within six months time, through telling lies that set the black men fighting among each other, this devil race had turned what had been a peaceful heaven on earth into a hell torn by quarreling and fighting." -Autobiography of Malcom X   

Property Crime is the number one crime in the US(Top Ten of Everything)  But I think the term's a little vague.  Includes robbery, I'm sure.

Whatever and Ever Amen.

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. 

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.

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