My Roommate, the Drunk

My 21st birthday was last week, and while I continue to nurse my hangover, I recently recalled a particularly embarrassing incident that happened a while back, and I've decided to share it with the general public to explain why I've chosen to be responsible with my alcohol consumption.

This whole ordeal happened a while ago (decades)--back when it was technically (and federally) against the law for me to "drink."

However, it was my friend's 21st birthday, and I simply assumed that campus security would give me a free pass to booze it up.  I mean, her parents were there, so how illegal could it really be?

Oddly, some people get discouraged when they hear that grown-ups will be attending a 21st b-day party.  Personally, I relish it (literally) because parents love to provide food for their offsprings' drunk friends (i.e. me).

I arrived at the party, mid-winter, with nothing but a half-pint of peppermint Super Schnapps and a positive attitude.  I remember that it was a great party and everyone was having a good time, especially me.  I enjoyed mini-cheeseburgers, exciting conversations about which character from 'Dexter' was hotter, and every random shot that was passed my way.

This party really opened my eyes to the different beverages that I could consume within two hours.  I learned how a Gin & Tonic tastes, how tasty a Surfer On Acid is (very), and that two different flavors of Burnetts vodka tastes just as bad as the individual flavors.

Between these drinks, the cups of beers handed to me, and sneaking swigs from my Super Schnapps, I reached my alcohol level rather quickly during the evening.

As a side note, let me clarify that a bottle of Super Schnapps contains twice the alcohol of regular Schnapps, but is just as delicious.  And by 'just as delicious,' I mean 'easy to polish off a half-pint in a stupidly short time span.'

I remember standing in front of the beer pong table, patiently waiting my turn by yelling obscenities at both sides and waving my arms as a distraction and... wiping puke from my face.

And as I knelt over the anonymous toilet, I could only think of two things:

1) How long it had been since I had last thrown up: When I had the flu during New Years 2003.

2) STOP THINKING ABOUT THROWING UP!

As the random shit projected out of my mouth, I attempted to think about how I ended up here.  Looking around, I noticed that the bathroom I was occupying was my own, and that I was puking into my own toilet.  This was too be the highlight of the rest of my evening.

I drifted in and out of consciousness for the next half hour, my right arm in a constant raised position.  This was not only so I had easy access to the flushing mechanism, but also resembled a Nazi salute, because when I get plastered, I also become frighteningly anti-semitic.

For the record, while peppermint Super Schnapps may taste yummy going down, it tastes like candy cane death coming back out, which is not as pleasant as it sounds.

I watched my vomit begin to swirl, partially because it was going down the toilet, and partially because... it was transforming into a face.  My eyes strained to focus on who I was looking at, and it quickly became clear that it was an unfamiliar face.  The face was attached to a uniform, and my first thought was 'Thank God, a plumber!  I think I clogged the toilet..."

But as I realized that I was lying down and no longer leaning over porcelain, I knew that I was not looking at a plumber, or any astute member of the sanitary profession.

The blurred edges grew sharper and sharper, until I could clearly see the latex gloves and the medical emblems stitched onto the uniform.  The only letters I could see were "M," "I," and "P."

The man stared at me, and I immediately snapped to attention, because that's when you do when you're about to receive a future-destroying penalty.  Nothing sobers a college student quite like the imminent feeling of getting royally boned by campus security.

The paramedic immediately began to bombard me with questions, quizzing me with impossible mindbenders:

1) "What's your phone number?"  The phone number I gave was a combination of my own and my brother's.  Apparently, alcohol gives me momentary numerical dyslexia.

2) "What's your address?"  Unfortunately, this was a question I didn't know the answer to sober, but I couldn't for the life of me remember where I put the piece of paper that held the correct address.

3) "Did you have anything to eat today?"  My answer was "pizza," which I claimed to have had at lunch.  That statement turned out to not be true, and I had inadvertently lied to the paramedic.  I failed to remember to bring up the already 'brought-up' mini-cheeseburgers.

He then asked me to sign an electronic pad.  I'm sure my drunken signature looked more like a child's rendition of a jungle cat instead of any word in the English language, let alone my name.

Throughout the course of this interview, the paramedic's partner was busy looking in my open closet, commenting occasionally on my extensive DVD collection (particularly 'Fargo').  My roommates claimed that the only reason I did not get an MIP that night was because my choice in movies does not paint a picture that I'm much of a partier.  It was a smart decision on my part not to have purchased the 'Animal House'/'Superbad'/'Adam Sandler collection' bundle pack at Best Buy earlier in the day, when I wasn't eating imaginary pizza.

I don't remember my exact blood alcohol content for the evening, but it was embarrassingly low for the state that I was in.  For reference, feeding an infant the proper dosage of cough syrup would yield a higher BAC than me.  As the paramedics left, they told my roommates to tease me incessantly about how much of a lightweight I am.

Touché, Mr. Ambulance Driver, touché.

I thanked the gentlemen as if I didn't want them to leave, saying how "wonderful" it was that they "took time out of their busy schedule" to "help me get though this."

My roommates left my door open and all went back to their respective bedrooms.  I unflinchingly thanked them as well, as if I didn't want them to sleep.

The next morning consisted of a combination of making Oatmeal, not eating the Oatmeal because of the memories it conjured up, and going back to bed.  Now, I have an amazing ability of not being able to get hangovers, but this particular morning felt as if all the potential hangovers decided to collectively wait until this particular morning to take effect.

However, I did not have a headache resulting directly from alcohol that night.  Rather, it was from spending countless hours bouncing my forehead off the bowl of the toilet while I evacuated my stomach.

I spent the next couple of days reenacting scenes from 'The Hangover' and doing a bit of detective work.  While my evening was enjoyable, I was only able to recall half of it.  My friends were able to piece together the rest of the night for me, and I present them to you like they exist in my mind, as deleted scenes:

1) Still at my friend's apartment, I inexplicably took the opposite side of the 'Which Dexter girl is the hottest?' debate, firmly cementing the fact that I am just a horny fanboy.

2) I played one of my better games of beer pong.  However, I could not for the life of me remember the house rules for more than a few seconds.  There was a behind-the-back rule that I could not follow due to a short attention span, until the moment finally clicked in my brain that said, "Hey, buddy!  Just play the rest of the game behind your back."  We lost.

3) I puked in the hostess' toilet.  While I began the night's degradation, my roommates could not find me or get a hold of me, as my cell phone's vibrations were masked by my constant ralphing.  Finally, I heard enough knocks on the door to unlock it and--for a reason I will never understand--hide behind the door as someone entered.  Fortunately, my friends decided it was time to drive me home.

4) Sprawled in my roommate's backseat, I blearily tried to remain conscious.  As he drove me home, my roommate demanded, "Dude, whatever you do, don't throw up in my car."  Being the kind and generous drunk I was, I responded with, "Yeah, god forbid I puke in your piece-of-shit car."

5) Upon arrival to our apartment, I dashed to the bathroom and continued where I had left off at my friend's place.  The entire time I was face-down in the toilet, I apparently adopted a new mantra, which I continuously mumbled in between barfs: "Fucking idiot.  Such a fucking idiot..."

6) After an hour or so, my roommates claim that I began shivering violently and breathing heavily as though I was dying of some crazy flu, so they called the paramedics.  Little did they know that I was merely attempting to shake and breathe the rest of my bodily fluids out.

7) In an attempt to get me to stay awake before the ambulance arrived, my neighbor asked me to tell him a story, because if there's one thing I'm going to college for, it's to tell stories.  Instantly, I launched into an engrossing tale that pulled inspiration from some of my favorite authors: Crichton, Updike, Meyers.

"So... my friend eats pancakes.  No, no... wait... he is a pancake.  No, no...  I feel bad saying that because he lost all of that weight during freshman year..."

It was, in a single word, riveting.

As a result of this single evening, I have learned to take it easy in regards to consuming alcoholic beverages.  Not necessarily because I could have died from it, but rather because every time I put booze near my lips, my friends always ask if they should have 9-1-1 on speed-dial, just in case.

Also, peppermint-flavored beverages now make me nauseous.

Of course, my night of supposed time travel and upchucking was not the most over-the-top drinking event of all time.  In fact, I know of several nights that were quote-unquote "crazy."  But I refuse to apologize for the fact that a tiger didn't end up in my bathroom.

Now that I'm 21 years old, I feel like I just graduated high school again; I get asked the same annoying question by every single person.  After high school it was "What's your major?" which may not seem like a big deal, unless you were undeclared like me.  After my 21st, the question was, "How was your birthday night?  Do you remember any of it?"  Haha, asshole, you're so funny!

And even if I did remember any of it, I wouldn't tell it to a dick like you.

Sorry about the outburst.  It's just the hangover talking.