That is a lovely comforter! Aaaaand, I barfed on it.

Jun 28, 2014 by

shotglassGather ’round oh ye children and friends. This is a little personal story about yours truly (That’d be me, Pinkatron) and my first and last encounter with Tequila at the tender age of 21. It’s a harrowing tale of stupidity and typical I’m-not-a-teenager-anymore-but-sure-as-fuck-ain’t-an-adult; wherein I embarrass myself fully and tenderly recall this moment years later with a mix of horrified amusement and lesson’s learned.

It all started, like most rebellious, experimenting young adult adventures: on the weekend. Still ingrained with the idea that life doesn’t start until Friday, I and my boyfriend at the time (name not used to protect the asshole), decided we needed to score some good weed and have a few drinks. I was working at Tim Horton’s at the time and just rushed home to clean up, shower and hit the city (Calgary.) I had a friend at that time, whom I’ll name Blondie because honestly through the fog of good drugs and stupid decisions….as well as age…I can’t for the life of me remember what the hell her name was, anyway.  I call her up and ask her if she wanted to have a few tokes and a few drinks. She says, sure–because I am sure she was hanging out with me for my witty repartee and charm. Certainly not the fact she could get high for free almost any time. (Look, I was just one of those kids, all right? I grew up though. I did!….I didn’t mature however. Anyway–)

We hop in the car, visit out hippie-artist-dealer who, like, man, always had like, scored some good shit, paid our money  and drove off to meet Blondie at her mom’s apartment. (Why was she there? I don’t know. All I remember is that Ma wasn’t home at the time.) We arrive eagerly and begin to set up to roll some joints, smoke some pot. Blondie brings out this bottle of amber drank-y goodness and sets it on the stylish 90’s glass coffee table before us and the ex-idiot.

Some back-story: I grew up in a tiny farmer town in Nova Scotia. My immediate knowledge of liquor consisted of rum & coke, beer, beer, Moosehead, Beer and oh yes–vodka and beer. Tequila I had heard of, but had never had let alone seen a bottle of. (See? I was so innocent!)

So, the bottle was settled down and I read the label and thought: Hmm. Tequila. I remember those shirts that say, “One Tequila, Two Tequila, Three Tequila, Floor.” I wonder if they have any truth to them? Naaah, I can handle this, right? Right! So Blondie thunked down two shot glasses and away we went.

It tasted like shoe polish gently mixed with acetone over a bed of simmering rubbing alcohol. I assume that’s not really how Tequila is supposed to taste, but I grimaced like Grumpy Cat, shook my head and soldiered on.

I wish….I wish I could put a proud number here. I wish I could say, “Yeah, bruh! I totally drank 8 shots!” But alas–I….I don’t remember anything after the fourth shot. Really. My last memories were of staring into the golden liquid at the bottom of my heavy shot glass, wondering: is this wise? Man, I am very drunk. This stuff is pretty strong. Why am I drinking this shot? Who’s holding this glass? Ooooop. What’s happening? Upsy-daisey, teeeeeheee–black out.

Literally. Nothing. No static hiss, no plastic wrap, no flash-blacks between eyelids. Somehow, I had gone from drinking that last shot glass to waking up orangutan-drunk sprawled in Blondie’s mother’s bedroom. Laying like the latest Law & Order murder victim across the bed, I remember thinking of just how awful I felt. Like my pants were cutting off oxygen to my brain and making it hard for me to breath (Look, I was super drunk. You don’t always make the smartest connections near black-out drunk.) so I flailed around on Blondie’s mother’s baby-shit yellow with brown dots? flowers? things? comforter trying to unbutton my jeans. All I wanted to do at that point in my life was be naked as possible and asleep forever. But part of my brain kept desperately trying to remind me I wasn’t in my own house and being naked right now might be counter productive. Also, I was too fucking wasted to unbutton my own god damn pants. (I mean, how bad is THAT?)

I assume time passed while I lay in a pile of miserable mistakes in the form of shot glasses. I don’t recall how much time passed, only that the god damn room wouldn’t sit still and my bed felt weird. And I should probably lay on my side. Eventually I lurched up off this yellow monstrosity from the 1900’s that covered the bed and stumbled with my half-undone pants into Blondie’s bathroom.

Where in I proceeded to violently and loudly throw up in her tiny little apartment sink. For some reason, I remember being fascinated by how bright pink my hork was–I probably had some sort of juice of popsicle or maybe even kool aid before drinking. (I don’t know.)

In my nearly brain dead self I remember being so proud of myself for horking in the bathroom instead of anywhere else. And then trying desperately to clean the sink out after while still horking. Clean. Hork. Clean. Hork. Oh god why am I alive–hork–sweet jesus why can’t I just stop–Hork–I’m gonna die, never drinking again.

Apparently I managed to make it back to Blondie’s mother’s bed. Because the last thing I remember is the ex-idiot coming in and having to haul me to get me upright and out the door, apologizing (or maybe I was?) the entire way out. I have NO idea how I got home, or how I got to bed, or what happened after.

I do know that my pride at making it to the bathroom was a lie the day after. Blondie called to let me know I had horked neon pink all over her mother’s coverlet. Well. Served her right for owning something that ugly anyway.

Also, I learned never, ever, ever, ever, ever, EVER DRINK TEQUILA again.
–But I still drink rum.


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