How It All Began

Last night I was with the company of old friends and took the opportunity to drink. By the end of the evening I had drank two 40 oz -- it was a light night. As I got into the car to drive home I thought to myself that it was surprising how the beers barely dented my sobriety. Then I laughed, thinking abour the first night I ever got drunk.

It was my junior year of high school, the Friday night before spring break started. The plan that evening was to meet in an unfinished subdivision where many fellow students congregated to drink, smoke a joint, or fuck. The plan was to pre-party there and then head on to a house party, which happened to be a mile or two from my place.

My friend, Lindo, was at my house. We were sitting around watching MTV just waiting to head out when he got a call from AB, who had an older brother. The older brother would, on occasion, procure alcohol for us. He asked what we wanted.

Lindo wanted a 40 oz. I debated it.

Up until this point in life, and actually for many years after it, I was somewhat straight edge. I never took a drink, I acted as designated driver so many times I should have earned a fucking sponsorship from the Alcohol Awareness council. (My, how times change.)

For some reason, not exactly sure if it was peer pressure or not, but I ordered a few drinks. That night, I knew what was going to happen. I knew the path I was walking down.

I was going to get drunk.

I wanted a 40 oz. Two of them.

Lindo relayed the order to AB, hung up and we got ready to go.

Later, as we all milled about the street at the rear of the unfinished subdivision, AB walked up to me and handed me a brown paper bag. I looked inside and found my two 40 oz. One went into the car, the other fit nicely into my hand.

About half-way in I started feeling something. I wasn't sure what it was, but it felt good. I was way more entertaining. I was way funnier. I was enjoying this. This was a feeling I didn't want to stop. This, I thought, is what everyone is talking about.

The remaining ounces inside that big brown bottle flowed into my stomach quickly. I had a mission that night, and dammit I was going to succeed.

At some point the decision was made to head to the party. Only one 40 oz. in and I was feeling quite good. Clearly the beer equaled a good feeling. That meant that more beer equaled a better feeling. This was a reasonable formula that I was more than willing to explore.

We arrived at the party and I rolled into the house. A bunch of us made our way to the basement and a few minutes later I found myself staring down the barrel of a three-foot bong.

Well shit, spark that fucker.

Three massive chamber hits later I popped open my second 40 oz. and started draining it quite liberally. Things were great. Nothing could go wrong. This was my night.

About two hours later -- and a few more beers -- I found myself at the kitchen table, hunched over and wanting to die.

There were a few guys just hanging out in the kitchen while the party clamored with life throughout the other rooms and into the backyard. My stomach trembled with the force of an earthquake. My body started twitching. I regretted every sip of that vile liquid.

Oh God. Kill me.

I informed one of the guys standing around the kitchen that I was, in fact going to puke. He happened to be the guy hosting the party.

Him: "Don't you fucking puke in my kitchen, dude. Don't you fucking do it."

I didn't have many choices. The more than 100 oz. of beer, the three massive bong hits and the low tolerance were combining to expunge any and all occupants of my stomach. It was only a matter of time, and it was measured in seconds.

Not wanting to puke on this guy's floor, I grabbed the only thing that could serve as a temporary receptacle for my vomit: A large fountain cup that was empty of soda.

I held it front of me.

Guy: "Dude,. FUCK THAT, IT'S GOING TO GO EVERYWHERE! GO TO THE BATHROOM. GO TO THE BATHROOM!"

Paralysis.

Vomit.

Blllllllleegghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

The three men in the kitchen watched as I hurled into this small fountain cup.

I finished. I looked around me. Nothing. Every drop of vomit had made it into the cup.

Guy: "Holy shit....That was fucking awesome."

It was time to go.

I secured a ride from a very attractive senior. We hopped into her car and she drove the mile and a half to my house. Oddly, she politely declined my invitation to come inside, tuck me in and go down on me. Weird.

I stumbled into my house, nearly tripped walking down the stairs, stripped off my clothes and fell into bed. I slept well that night.