I’m pretty sure that the amount of fun you have at night is directly proportional to the amount of embarrassment/guilt you feel the next morning. For example, if you stay home and knit (I’ve spent many a night doing this) you are very unlikely to feel embarrassed about that. Well… you might feel embarrassed if you tell other people. Never mind, that was a horrible example. Here, if you go to Mexico and snort cocaine with prostitutes in the men’s bathroom behind a Taco Shop (yeah, I know someone who did this), you will likely be embarrassed. Or at least you should be. Does that work as an example for this concept? Maybe this proportionality is only the case for me because I’m strange. (I’m not actually proposing that I’m strange–I’m well aware of this fact.)
Anyway, now that I’ve completely messed up my metaphor, I’ll just talk about what I originally planned to talk about.
Last night was very fun, I think. (Mind you, I was pretty hammered so I’m not completely sure about this. So this will be a combination of speculation, fuzzy memories, and what I’ve been told.) And now, today, I mildly hate myself. Well, more than normal. (Self-loathing teenage? Say what?!)
(Just a warning, I’m in a parentheses mood, so these will be appearing often).
Sunday afternoon, after a ridiculous blow-out with my brother, I went to hang out with my friend, the lovely Dean. We wandered (can you wander in a car?) around our boring town for a while, stopping at the mall so I could return a shirt, sitting in Starbucks for a while… Eventually, I said “How about we go to the beach?” Which was a really stupid idea considering it was dark out and pouring and normal people would want to stay home. But Dean agreed because he’s an agreeable person. I drove through random side roads, through the mountains, shouting every time a bat or bunny was in view. And then, at a certain point, I decided that I wanted to drink. My brother is my usual supplier of alcoholic beverages, but he was mad at me and we were 45 minutes away from home anyway so…
I automatically drove to a liquor store and somehow convinced my friend to try to buy a 12 pack even though he’s just 19. The thing is, Dean doesn’t drink. His dad’s an alcoholic and so he’s only even been drunk once; when he was with me and I convinced him to. He was just doing this because I didn’t want to be sober. I told him to act like he had forgotten his ID at home. He went into the liquor store and they turned him down. He asked some people walking into the store, and they, too, turned him down. So, I drove to a 7/11 and had the same situation. And then another liquor store after that.
There were some guys standing outside so I told Dean to ask one of them. This time, the guy agreed. As we waited in the car for the guy to return with the beer, I was absolutely terrified and kept saying “I bet he was a cop. He was a cop, wasn’t he? He’s calling for back up! That’s why he’s been gone so long! We’re going to be arrested!” In all actuality, he was only in the store for about 5 minutes, but with my panicked exclamations, it seemed drastically long than that. But, finally, he came back . The guy told us he wouldn’t have bought it for us, but he was all out of money and really needed that 7 dollars we had promised him. Turned out, he was homeless. But before he had agreed to buy us the beer, he had made sure we wouldn’t be driving and asked Sean a number of times if he was actually over 21. (He had stuck by the ‘I lost my ID’ story I had concocted.)
The rest of the night was pretty dumb. I chugged two beers while I had Dean drive. Then, for some reason, we decided to head over to our friend’s house. That wouldn’t have been an issue, but her dad was still up. I put on my best sober act though, and luckily, it wasn’t too noticeable that I had been drinking. I must be the cheapest drunk in the world, managing to be buzzed on just two beers…
Then things get kind of fuzzy. We went back to the car, and I had a few more beers. It’s weird, I never drink beer honestly, except when there’s nothing else around. I usually do shots of vodka because, while it’s disgusting, at least it’s quick. Beer tastes substantially better, but takes way too long to drink. Plus, I feel like hard liquor is somehow more sophisticated than beer. (Because asking homeless people to buy you alcohol is just the essence of sophistication…)
At one point I made Dean pull over so I could throw up on the side of the freeway. I had picked up Dean, so he called my brother to see if he could drive him home– said he would just have to stay the night. So, basically, I pretty much screwed up everything. Generally, I can’t remember anything when I drink. I have so much that there are just bits in pieces that come through, but I remember last night. I didn’t wake up thinking “Well last night was fun, whatever happened.” I woke up thinking “Shit, why did I do those things? Why did I say those things?”
Things ended up working out ok, though. I mean, apart from the headache and nearly falling asleep in my morning class. And my mother being angry. She keeps asking “where I got that booze”, which, is one of the most irritating phrases ever. Booze is such a dumb word. I’m not sure if I think this because it’s actually an annoying word or if it’s just because my mom likes to use it.
But, honestly, there’s a reason that you don’t remember things when you drink. I think your brain is blocking out that embarrassment so you don’t dwell on your stupidity too much. It’s like a defense mechanism or something. A defense mechanism–so you don’t have to realize what an ass you just made of yourself.