On Why You Shouldn’t Binge Drink On Your 21st Birthday.
Because I spent my high school years living on the border (which, coincidentally, was Aerosmith’s first choice, but edge eventually won out because, hello, catchier.), I was basically, for all drunktensive purposes, of legal drinking age by the time I reached 14.
The first time I got drunk was with my cousin. And it ended just as you’d probably suspect it would, with me humping an orange traffic cone. Also, that was the night I learned one of life’s most valuable lessons: when the bed is spinning, always put one foot on the floor.
The second time I got drunk was at a friend’s older sibling’s party. I drank approximately 1,023 itty-bitty cups of trashcan punch. This ended badly, with me passing out in their backyard, only to be awoken by his less than pleased get your drunk ass off my lawn mother. Hawaiian Punch, I raise my tiny fists to thee!
The 50th time I got drunk, I was felt-up by a guy friend, who went on to tell everyone the following day that he’d climbed, and conquered, Mount Everest. (Mount Everest was TOTALLY unimpressed with his climbing skills, by the way. Yawn.)
The 100th time I got drunk….
Well, you get the picture.
So, by the time my landmark 21st birthday rolled around, I was, like, so totally over it. Pleased with my ability to bong a beer faster than most of my guy friends, I was way too cool to be excited about legally being able to do so. I rolled my eyes and smirked, when I’d hear my non-border friends giddily talking about the big 2-1.
And, then it happened, I got my cocky ass handed to me on a platter. I remember that night like it was yesterday. Well, the first couple of hours of it, at least.
It was December, 6, 1998, and I was living in Austin. My friends and I hit a bar on 6th street we’d frequented many times before, albeit illegally, but still. This time I was finally able to get in without using a fake ID, or having to frantically scrub big black X’s off my hands in the restroom stall (Baby Oil, FTW!).
My rite of passage night began with a round of shots for everyone. And then, 20 more rounds just for me. I vaguely recall a drag queen, with a flawless face and much perkier tits than me, handing me a drink she’d just lit on fire. Luckily, the potent taste of pure, cheap alcohol, quickly overcame the stench of burnt nose hair.
My next memory is when things start to get foggy. I sort of remember getting up and walking out into the crisp, cool night air. And slurring to myself, “Maybe I shouldn’t have had those last 16 shots…and four Long Islands.”
Annnnnnnd fade to black.
The next morning, I awoke in my pajamas in bed, but in my own bed, so, winning! I went through the standard what the hell happened last night college ritual, trying to piece the night back together.
I brushed the taste of cigarette, shame, and death off my tongue, and stumbled out of my room in search of my roommate and boyfriend.
Please let it be him who changed me and put me to bed last night, and not the pyromaniac drag queen imbiber. Or that hot guy from the bar. Wait, what am I saying, please let it be that hot guy from the bar.
As I got to the top step of our staircase, my foot splashed down onto the soaking wet carpet – squish- squirt – oozing up between my toes.
“GROSS. WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?” I shouted, while running downstairs.
My boyfriend and roommate were sitting on our couch, probably watching Jeopardy, because that was kind of her thing.
She was the smart roomate.
Where as I was more the…
“I’ll take Slackers for $500.
Question: Small, square, white papers commonly referred to as Zig-Zags.
Allison: What is something you use to get high?”
“YOU GUYS. WHO THE FUCK PUKED ALL OVER THE STAIRS LAST NIGHT? I just stepped in it. Gross!”
“No one puked.
Answer: A chick named Allison.
Question: Who got so shit-faced she pissed on the stairs?”
Apparently, I had gotten up to pee, walked in the opposite direction of my bathroom, pulled down my pants, and plopped my drunk ass firmly down on the top step…letting the flood gates open.
And THAT? Is how well I hold my liquor, you guys.
The moral of the story: DON’T binge drink, but if you do, lay like a tarp out anywhere you think a drunk person might piss.
Or something like that.