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It’s my second Saturday night in college. I’m hanging out with some friends at my soon-to-be fraternity’s house. We’d played a couple of games of beer pong, but I didn’t really expect to get drunk that night. After all, how much drinking can one kid really do?
One of my buddies comes into the kitchen with a handle of Jose Cuervo, a thing of salt, and a couple of limes. This is a good point to explain that I was a “good kid” in high school. I drank very occasionally, I avoided other illicit substances, and I was nice to girls. At least I’m still nice to girls.
The six shot glasses are given out—one to each guy—and our golden tickets to paradise start flowing. We keep track for awhile: one, two, four, seven, ten. To be honest, I have no idea how much liquidy goodness I pumped into my system, but it was more than enough. I (miraculously) made it to the couch outside to lie down for awhile.
Then I did something bad: I found my cell phone. I dialed the first number I could think of, which happened to be my girlfriend’s. We were in a long-distance thing at the time, and I figured my blackout, bleary-eyed, retarded drunken state was an excellent time to have a conversation with a girl who liked to sleep with me.
Unfortunately, she and I had a few rules. When I tried a new green substance, she told me she didn’t care what I did. She just didn’t want to hear about it. The idea of me high worried her, and she didn’t want me to turn into one of “those guys.”
This was fair enough, but I’m a very poor liar when I’m drunk. Apparently, I gave her detailed descriptions of both of my visits to Mary and Juan’s house.
Meanwhile, the other five guys were busy vomiting all over the house. One was hanging over the bridge at our house, puking into the stream that ran through our backyard.
Another started playing beer pong and blew chunks all over the room. Still another was busy praying at the porcelain shrine; unfortunately, of all the toilets in the house, he chose the urinal as the optimal place to puke. As all this was happening, a very wonderful girl picked my wasted ass off of the couch and guided me home.
Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
A tequila hangover comes in a close second.
When I woke up the next day, my phone was making all sorts of painful sounds. I had a message from my slightly angry girlfriend, the girl who walked me home (who I am now dating, ironically), and from the president of the fraternity.
I put the girlfriend off for later (we broke up the next week anyway), got breakfast with some friends, and headed over to the house to check out the damage. Though I had unfortunately not puked, I was one of two in the group who managed to hold it all down. The house looked and smelled atrocious.
Then I spotted it on the counter: the bottle from the night before was bone dry.
Wow, you really need a cup of coffee and a dictionary of puke terms.