2003-07-17
Drinking
I don't drink.
Well, that's a bit of a white lie. I like a glass of wine now and then. Generally speaking, however, alcohol and I do not mix. So I steer clear of most beverages that include the word "proof" on the label.
I probably should have learned this lesson much much earlier in my life. But I wanted to be able to hold my booze like my friends who could suck vodka and tequila down by the gallon and function like Madeline Albright the day after. So I gulped the stuff and gave my pound of flesh.
It's amazing I never ended up in the hospital. I probably should have had my stomach pumped a few times, but my friends were all too drunk to remember how to dial 911. Good medical care involved laying me gingerly on a bathroom floor with a pillow under my head.
My hangover is not the hangover of the average bear. No. My hangover is punishment for all my evil deeds and thoughts. I stopped going to confession after my first hangover because I knew eternal penance had found me. The hangovers of my youth would incapacitate me for a day or so. They could not prepare me for the grown up hangovers I would suffer on three separate occasions.
Once, I tried to keep up with my younger brother and his friends by slugging shots of vile black raspberry schnapps. I broke all the blood vessels in my face from throwing up so violently.
Another severe hangover involved red wine and Bailey's Irish Cream. Pink vomit, folks. I did not know vomit could be pink.
My last and most recent hangover took place at Disney World. Good clean family fun turned ugly. My best friend and I took a girly vacation together in 2000 to the Land of Mouse. One night we went to a dueling piano bar and guzzled 32 ounce margaritas with the local yokels at the table next to us.
Mrs. Yokel had bleached blonde hair with the darkest roots known to mankind and wore electric pink lipstick. She had a husky voice that indicated she had smoked about 1,130 cigarettes that day. Since noon. Mr. Yokel mainly grunted. He reminded me of the guy who played Cher's husband in the movie "Mask." And I do mean the character, not the actor.
At this fine establishment, you write song requests on little napkins and bring them up to the piano men to sing. The audience sings along. I was so loaded the piano players actually crumpled up my requests and threw them on the floor. My request for "What Would Brian Boitano Do?" sung by Eric Cartman from South Park is what I think disgusted them. I did not take their musical talent seriously enough in my drunken stupor.
The next day we were supposed to go to a water park. We didn't go because I was tethered to the toilet until late afternoon. I was further punished by going on one of those simulator rides that takes you on a journey through the human body. It's a miracle the people in front of me didn't end up with the contents of my human body all over the backs of their heads.
And I am an ASS when I am drunk. If you think I am an ass now, you should see me inebriated. It's ASS CITY, population ONE.
I slur and giggle and stumble and make obnoxious remarks. I am embarrassing to myself and everyone around me. I am a blathering idiotic fool.
Here comes my big disclaimer. I have a theory. My theory is that I am, in fact, ALLERGIC TO ALCOHOL. This theory can be supported by my friends and family who have seen me in a state of drunkenness. This theory explains and excuses all past, present and future behavior of myself under the influence of alcohol. I can assert that FUTURE exhibitions of such behavior will not be likely.
If you need a designated driver, I'm your girl. Believe me, it's for your own good. And mine.
joeparadox at 7:33 a.m.