Confession: Party Times

I drank too much on Saturday. (This is going to be one of those stories.) It was like I was in my senior year of college, again, on a Tuesday.

K-bag on her average Tuesday

We had a beach party. It was cold out, and there was Dry Fly Gin. (Way to go, Spokane!) And Maria was pouring shots, and those are my excuses. We eventually got too cold and carted all the stuff the three blocks back to the apartment. Mikey was carrying our card table and allegedly said, "I'm glad I'm always drunk when I do this kind of thing. Otherwise, people might judge me, like: what's that guy doing carrying a table!"

I remember telling Julie about my new favorite thing with ending sentences in "so". It allows the listener to fill in their choice of suggestion or sass or doubt. E.g. We were, like, going out for hamburgers, so. I was telling people all sorts of things. I told John that I was, in my estimation, 30% gay. 15% for Julie (understandable, if paltry), 10% for somebody we couldn't later recall, and 5% for the rest of the women on Earth. So ladies, I am 5% gay for YOU. (Or I could be 10% gay for you if you happen to be the woman we can't remember. It's possible.)

I'm kind of a hunk, so...

Then my birthday present from Mitch arrived in the mail - it was an e-cigarette just like I wanted! They come in no-nicotine, so don't worry. Except that Mitch accidentally got the high nicotine ones, so. (Mom, don't tell Dad.) I was getting everybody to try it with me.

We turned out the lights and were dancing in the living room. Jess (bus-accident Jess) was leading us in some salsa. (I was really good at it, so.) Then we started other dancing. Apparently at one point I jumped on Mitch's back - he might have prompted it, I'm not sure - and then he flipped me head-first over his back and onto the ground. It was later described as a body slam.

That's not the worst of it. That's not what made me feel really ashamed the next day as I nursed the bruise on my left hip bone. I called Emily Palmer to give my confession and get some sympathy. I told her, in a voice that had started sounding like an 80-year-old smoker's, that what made me look really bad was the fact that when I hit the ground, party-goers standing around me, looking down, I didn't feel pain at all.

She said that that was nothing. One time, the day after she got drunk, she found her sock drawer was soaking wet. The first thing she did was to smell it to make sure it wasn't pee. It wasn't. It wasn't pee.

I still felt a bit out of control. (Mom, really, don't tell Dad.) But that did make me feel better. She's a good friend.