It was Friday night at around 6 p.m. I went to Stop & Shop and picked up three 18 packs of Bud Light. I picked up Ace and headed over to Smitty's house in Haverstraw; I parked my car at Smitty's with every intention of sleeping there and driving home in the morning. We played basketball for a couple of hours (my jump shot is rusty but I can D up) and then started to booze. Someone had the bright idea of competing with drinks, so Smitty set up a chalkboard and we tallied up each time we imbibed a liver-ravaging beverage. Ace tried to keep up but thankfully he opted to stay relatively sober, but me, Smitty and Sack had our game faces on.
Editor's Note: Sack's 20 years old. You don't go drink-for-drink with a college kid and expect to come out of it in one piece.
It was around 10 p.m. at this point. We're crushing beers as we waited for what was probably two hours for the pizza to arrive. We didn't play any drinking games - we didn't need any - we just drank. Smitty was consistently two drinks ahead of me as I managed to be one ahead of Sack. There was a lot of "Tortoise and the Hare" talk going around. After about eight beers Smitty and I were feeling pretty buzzed. "I don't feel anything; I drink five nights a week in college," Sack said. I didn't believe him. "There's no fucking way you can have eight beers and not feel anything. I refuse to believe that," I told him. Turns out he was right.
Because Sack had said he wasn't feeling anything, that's when we decided it was time for liquor. Out came the Jack Daniels and Jameson and gone went my memory. I believe it was around 1:30 a.m. when I remember marking my 12th drink on the chalkboard. All I remember after that was puking in the bathroom and cleaning up puke.
Back to Saturday. My dad was looking at me as if I had just slapped my mom in the face - I answered my phone and it was Ace. I can't remember what he said...some version of, "Good, you're alive."
"What the fuck happened last night?" I asked him. "Where's my car? How did I get home?"
Editor's Note: I literally don't remember anything...like, absolutely nothing. I can't remember the last time I haven't been able to remember this much. Please don't construe any of this as boasting, even though clearly there's nothing in this entry that implies that.
Ace proceeded to explain to me what had happened. Turns out I didn't just puke in the bathroom...I puked in Smitty's kitchen and upon my extreme inebriation, angrily yet indifferently stated that I refused to clean it. Smitty was passed out (which means I drank more than him), meanwhile Ace was sober and Sack was eerily composed after at least 15 drinks. They cleaned up my puke in the kitchen - Smitty's girlfriend was over and was clearly unhappy with the stink of vomit in the kitchen of all places.
Editor's Note: I'm going out on a limb and saying that this was at least the fifth time Ace has cleaned my puke.
Whatever time it was at this point - 3, 4 in the morning - it was time to go. Ace apparently had problems getting me out of the house. I refused to leave which resulted in a wrestling match between me, Ace and Sack in the middle of the hallway. Now I know why there was blood on me. Sack doesn't remember wrestling anyone.
As I continued to get filled in on what exactly the fuck happened Friday night, Ace then asked, "Do you remember what you did to your car?" I already told him: "I DON'T REMEMBER ANYTHING."
"Well, you puked in your car man. It's pretty gross," he said.
"Wonderful," I possibly replied. Just wonderful." Though I remained on the line with Ace, my father then interrupted my conversation to tell me, "You know you passed out on the front steps last night, right? What the hell is wrong with you?"
"Hey Ace," I said. "I fuckin passed out on my front steps too."
"Hahahahaha. Nice man," Ace replied.
I hung up with Ace and had my father take me to Ace's house to get my car back. Though I was barely coherent on the ride, I received a healthy lecture from him about being an alcoholic and having to be more responsible because I have two younger brothers who don't need to see that. Turns out my 16, almost 17-year-old brother saw me passed out on the small couch and broke out laughing.
I got in my car to see red vomit on the passenger's seat along with some fresh looking chunks in the cracks of the window. I know...pretty fuckin narley. I rolled a blunt in the hopes that as usual, weed would be my cure for what turned out to be the worst hangover of my life. The gange had worked...but only briefly. I managed to muscle down a bacon, egg and cheese sandwich and some chocolate milk, only to puke it up an hour later. I was smoking weed, falling asleep, waking up and vomiting until 8:30 p.m. on Saturday night. I was shaking all day - I think I had alcohol poisoning. Serves me right, I know. You don't have to tell me asshole.
Sunday I gave Smitty a call to check up on the damage I had done. He's one of the most laidback people on the planet - definitely the most laidback person who doesn't smoke weed - so he was cool about everything. "We should do it again soon," he said, as I heard his girlfriend say in the background, "Yeah, but next time do it at his house."
"Did anything else happen?" I asked. "How's the kitchen? Is there anything I can do?"
"It still smells," Smitty said. "I have to get some paint to put on the wall. Just sell me your soul."