the sloppy copy

Though I posted my previous post for a reason, I get all fidgety and cringe-y when shit gets real, and thus: I must make myself feel better by telling an outrageous story.

Phew. I feel better already.

Guys? Have I ever told you about the first time I ever got drunk in public?

I’d never drank in a bar before.

Scratch that.

I’d never gone out to a bar for the sole purpose of becoming intoxicated.

I’d been out a few times for “social drinking.”* But this was different; we were going out to celebrate! To blow off steam! To hang with friends! To get waaaaaaaasted!

Or at least, that’s how I (perhaps mistakenly) interpreted it.

Myself, a friend I’ll refer to as E, and another guy – shit! What was his name? Let’s call him Punk-Ass – wandered into a bar called the Adam’s Apple. It was sometime around 10:00 or so in beautiful downtown Grand Rapids, Michigan.

This is where the details get fuzzy.

Punk-Ass had been talking at length re: his copious alcohol consumption prior to our entrance in the bar. Fully expecting him to walk in and immediately start pounding shots, imagine our shock when he got some sort of Schmirnoff malt beverage to daintily sip while E and I ended up playing a game called How Many Beers Can We Fucking Drink Before Julie Has To Be Carried Out?

Answer: Eight.

I say this because I think I stopped at seven.

Also, we were at the bar for about an hour or so.

To this point in my life, the majority of my alcohol consumption had been some aforementioned malt beverages and mostly hard liquor, and usually mixed together. It was the kind of thing that hit oneself hard and fast: you had a few shots’ worth and boom.  You knew you were done.

Anyway, I’d never in my life gotten drunk on beer and didn’t realize that (at least with me, maybe?) it takes a bit for it to catch up with ye.

At about six or seven beers in, E tasked me with getting us some smokes. But, being absolutely obliterated, I could not work the cigarette machine.** Meaning, I stumbled over to it, stared at it for a good minute (deer-in-headlights style) and then turned around and walked away.

E was also drunk, but had considerably more experience pounding back Bud Lights like a champ. I, on the other hand, stepped out the door and the sidewalk immediately began to spin beneath my feet. Punk-Ass had left us long ago, having finished his single Fruity Malt Beverage and went back to the hotel to go to bed like a responsible person.

I imagine it took us about a half hour to navigate the half-block journey back to the hotel. Drunk as I was, I do remember being extremely careful about avoiding the decorative concrete planters built into the sidewalk.

Also, I think I threw up in one.

During our journey-across-the-street, we passed a dude taking a smoke break outside the hotel. Still drunkenly wanting a cigarette, I casually asked the gentleman if he wouldn’t mind sparing one.

Except I think it came out something like this:  DUDE. DUDE. Can I bum a smoke? DUDE.

I honestly don’t even remember if he obliged, or if I even smoked it if he did. I can imagine E distracting me and taking it out of my hand, probably to smoke it himself.

We made it back to the hotel and I laid face-down in bed, pausing in my apologies to my friends long enough to puke into a trash can that someone else kindly set beside me. I remember more than one person noting just how quietly I vomited, and I still don’t know how to take this compliment.

And that’s all I have to say about that.

*a term that briefly lost its meaning from the ages of 21-26.
**I haven’t seen one of those in ages! Do they still exist?!