Old Story I Felt I Had to Share

Sometime in '04 – Good times + Good friends = A lot of Shampoo.

I want to start this one off with a disclaimer: I do not approve of drinking underage. I have, however, drunk my share of bottles when I was underage. This happens to be one of those stories. I DO NOT recommended that anyone drinks underage. It is against the law.

Now that the legal bullshit is out of the way:

I was sitting in the basement of my parents' house with a group of friends one night, for a friend's birthday party. There were about ten of us there and, in the hick town that I grew up in, everything closed at about 8pm. The logical choice for ten teens on a random Saturday night was to break into the home owner's liquor cabinet and see what you could swipe and consume without getting caught.

EC, Jem, and I started plotting how to get booze for the others in the basement. There was not mission impossible music playing, but there should have been. We slinked up the stairs and into the kitchen. I slyly ran into the top step and tripped over myself, causing Jem to run into me, and EC to run into him. I fell into the kitchen, which put me exactly where I wanted to be: on the floor, next to the liquor. I reached up and opened the cabinet and with the grace of an angry panda on ice skates I went digging. I whipped out every bottle I could and, one by one, EC and Jem took them downstairs.

Did I mention we did this all silently through hand motions that made the three of us look like special umpires? And not that "Wow! This is unusual" type of special but the "My favorite color's clear and I like to lick GLAAAAASSSS" kind.

After taking what seemed like a good amount for the ten of us, I stood up and started to walk down stairs. But something caught my eye. There was vodka in the back that I hadn't seen in my digging: Citron Absolut. What can I say? My parents aren't drinkers. That was just their 'For Company' bottle. I figured that I had company, so why not drink it? I picked it up and tossed it under my arm and headed back downstairs.

The ten of us started to play every drinking game under the sun and most of us were wasted within about twenty minuets of picking up our first glass. I, however, felt that I needed to go for broke. I downed the Citron Absolut that earlier was deemed as "tasting funny." I drank the entire bottle...the entire fucking bottle. At this point in time, I was a very inexperienced drinker. That act alone should have had me on the floor, but did I fall? Did I falter? FUCK NO. I picked up another bottle, rum this time, and horded the last of it for myself.

About three bottles later, I was passing in and out of various states of intoxication. Like frat boys in the Fifties, everyone jumped in the bathtub trying to fit as much as we could in there. Our last count was all of ten us, a stuffed animal, three bottles of random alcohol, and both of Apple's tits. I add in that last bit because Apple's rack could encompass the world if it really tried. I honestly think we could have fit three more people in the tub if she could have taken off her tits.

My next solid memory after tits in a tub was being in my bedroom with Kita. Kita was a Russian guy who I knew through friends of friends of friends. Why he was at my house? I still don't know, but there I was topless in my bed with him kissing my stomach. Normally, I would have been like "Fuck yes! I am incoherently drunk and I am still getting some ass!" On this particular day, however, not so much. The barely there pressure of his kisses were enough to take me out of the state that I was in and into an immediate panic. I needed to find a place to puke and I needed to find one - NOW.

I tried to lift my upper body and get Kita to stop, but gravity proved too much for me. Using all of my force, I got to about a crunch position when the floodgates opened and all hell broke loose. I puked more that night then I had collectively for the entire year before that. It was everywhere, but most illustriously it went directly onto Kita's head. With unceasing fury, Kita ran upstairs and into the bathroom to shower. He barely took time to take his clothes off before he jumped in. I heard the next day that he himself puked on the way to the bathroom. Sympathy pukers, I will never understand them.

I was covered in vomit, my legs were as useless as Christopher Reeves', and I had no shirt on. Having come to the realization that I just spilled the entirety of my stomach onto someone's head, I did the only useful thing I could: I called my friend Apple for help. I woke the next day in the bathtub with my pants soaked, thinking I had pissed myself. I was still shirtless. Turns out, Apple chucked me in the bathtub and started the water running for about 20 mins in efforts to wake me up after I passed out on her three times and tried to make out with her more than she could count. Like everyone else in the world, I am a horny drunk.

All in all, the night was fun. I would however like to find Kita again. I haven't spoken with him since. That bastard owes me ten bucks...he used all of my shampoo.

Two Posts in One Day Because I Just Started.

Reason to start a lesbionic relationship.

Yesterday night was one hell of a night. EC, D, and I decided to hit up a Hookah bar down by KSU. I had never been there before but I figure it's just one more place where I can unleash my stunning personality, charm, and wit on the local populace. So, we head down to the 'bar' at around 9pm. This is earlier then I like to normally head out because I tend to pre-game at my house on a regular basis, but I was told we were heading to a bar, so I was game.
If you've never been to a Hookah 'bar' I will warn you this one – NOT A FUCKING BAR! The waiter, if you could call him that, came over with their pathetic menu. The strongest thing on it is fucking Monster. Now, don't get me wrong! I live off of caffeine drinks, usually Red Bull, but I am not picky. Monster has gotten me through late night study sessions in my brief stint in college, all night parties, and the "what-the-fuck-did-I-do?" hangovers the next day. However, this is not my idea of top shelf shit and it depressed me that I couldn't get anything better than that. After sucking down three of them and killing one and a half hookahs with my two friends, nothing eventful happened. I figured that this was going to be a night that I would soon forget, move past, and catalog in the things never to do again file. Then it started picking up.
Every table filled up in a matter of moments and eventually there was a line out the door. As we were sitting there smoking away, this not-cute-but-not-ugly-enough-to-make-me-wretch guy walked over and started talking to us. He was slightly intoxicated and, I figured, my only source of entertainment for the night. So, after picking on him a bit to see if he could take it, we invited him and his friends to sit with us.

Introductions were being passed around and everyone was saying hello. EC, like the asshole he is, hits the Hookah with his elbow and the hot coal from the top falls out and hits Drunky McSloshedface's crotch. DMcS, as I like to call him, sits there for at least a twenty second interval with this coal burning away at his man bits before his fight or flight instincts kick in. Now, faced with a burning crotch, I would most likely choose the flight option: stand up brush the coal off of myself and then laugh at the situation. DMcS chose the fight option. He pulls back his fist and starts mutilating his crotch in a drunken attempt to Mike Tyson the coal away from his now enkindled member. He looked like a rabid monkey, complete with the too-drunk-to-hold-my-mouth-closed spit trail and grunting noises that one can only hope were result of the pain he was in. And after that many punches to his very own groin he should have been in pain.
Once he was done bowdlerizing his own genitalia, he sits back down, spots the coal on the ground, and picks it up with his bare hands to place it back atop the hookah so he can get another hit. He hits it hard and passes over to D without so much as a second glance. As if flailing about like a window licking epileptic was cool.

A short time later, he asked for my number. Now do you see why I am still single?

This is Me.

I am not that great of a person. Hell, who am I kidding? I am a horrible person. I find myself routinely dashing the hopes of others, violating the "unspoken laws" of society, and very much living for the hedonistic pleasures that life will give me. I am the center of my own world and, as far as I am concerned, everyone else's.

Knowledge of my planet-rotating personality only makes me become more of a bitch, and gives me more reason to break the social norms that everyone else so gingerly dances around. I've laughed at midgets openly to their faces, I've spat upon people because I didn't like their attitude, drank more then my share on multiple occasions, causing ungodly amounts of puking, pissing, and more blackouts then one should have in three lifetimes. I've hooked up with, beat up, or verbally assaulted almost everyone I've met. As each day progresses, I continue to add to the list of people that hate me, places I've been kicked out of, and (most importantly) people that worship me like a god. Truthfully, I like those last select few people best.

It's that last group of people that may throw you off a bit. If I am this bad of a person and willing to admit freely to anyone that asks that my head is stuck so far up my own ass that I can lick the back of my own teeth, why on God's green earth would people still want to be around me? Entertainment, ladies and gentleman. I am one entertaining bitch. I mean, think about it. You have a friend that, without trying to be anything but themselves, has given you hundreds of stories to tell your grandchildren. Wouldn't it be great? Wouldn't you keep them around too, even if they had puked on your front steps in the dead of winter causing an ice sheet of puke to be walked over the next morning, and then laughed at you when you fell on their ice puke? Admit it: you would, wouldn't you?

All I have to say to that is: Fuck you all using me for your own sadistic purposes. The stories are mine and, damn it, I am going to tell them the right way. My way.