I have an unusual relationship with alcohol. And in many ways, this is the story of my life. But not really. But also, pretty much.
I started losing my hair when I was 16. Yes, 16. It was a cruel fate. A true loss in the genetic lottery. (No pun intended.)
And yet despite that early and pitiable setback, I still had some minor success with girls in high school. I had a nice smile; I was sometimes funny; I was/am sensitive and generally handsome, despite my reflective dome. But that's not to say girls were throwing themselves at me. It's just that every now and then, either because of my baseball successes (I was awesome) and general "popularity" (due to baseball successes) or because they had no self-esteem, a nice girl would let it be leaked to her group of friends that she had a crush on me.
But that pretty much ended in college. Well, it didn't end, but the quality of girls shot way, way down. Wider hips, thicker waists, more facial hair -- on the girls, not me. And being a loner in just about every sense of the word since as far back as I can remember, I spent most of my days in college in a pot haze, not really worried about girls who preferred those damnable "attractive" guys rather than we the funny (looking) few. Again, I still had rare crushes, but primarily from the sort of girls who put the "crush" in crush -- as in heaviness and the ability to crush metal.
In high school I didn't drink much. I was too concerned with being the best baseball player possible -- and with my 5'8" stature, whiteness and right-handedness, I needed every competitive advantage I could get -- not to mention the fact that I didn't really enjoy it. I had great friends who drank heavily and who became just okay friends, and then not friends at all. Embarassments. The kinds of teenagers who revelled in the danger of drinking and driving.
They wanted to kill others; I wanted to kill myself.
High school is a brutal time.
But then when college came, I started to enjoy drinking more and more. Ohio University is a walking campus. Everything is within walking distance of everything else. No need to worry about drinking and driving; we needed only worry about getting busted by cops for being so drunk we stood out among a campus of 30,000 drunk assholes. So no worries, really.
Now here's the way I would drink: most of the time, I'd have about six to eight drinks, get pretty drunk, and then head home and smoke and get absolutely kablooey -- rock-starring the fine line between kablooey and spewing my intestines into the crotch of a toilet. But sometimes... I drink to the point of no return. I never really know when it's going to happen; I rarely plan on it. But sometimes it just happens. Way, way, way too drunk. Obnoxiously drunk. Homer Simpson and Hunter Thompson, live and rowdy and in your face.
So with those two explanations out of the way, I begin the "story of my life."
Sophomore year in college, a girl lived on my floor who was absolutely drop-dead un-fucking-believable. Seriously. Unreal. One of the sexiest girls on the entire campus. I shit you none. I only talked to this girl once during my sophomore year. On that hilarious day we now refer to as Sept. 11, 2001. I came back from an 8am speech class and we were both riding up the elevator together (we lived in the pimpest dorm on campus) and she said to me "Did you hear? America's under attack." I, in all my witty glory, countered with this gem: "Nuh uh. What do you mean?" She briefly explained and then the elevator doors opened and I shot over to my room to turn on the news. That was our only encounter all year.
Junior year rolls around and it turns out this girl shows up at one of our house parties. I lived with seven other dudes in the rattiest piece of shit house on campus, but honestly we were seven of the coolest people I've ever been associated with. All funny, laid-back, athletic, cool sunsabitches. So we threw ridonkulous parties. (Unfortunately, two of our roommates were on the baseball team, so we always had a little too much sausage for my tastes, but with baseball sausage comes some hot peppers, so it rather balanced out.)
So Hotty McTerrorism shows up with a girl I knew well, and we three started talking, and for whatever reason I decided to be like George Costanza in that Seinfeld episode where he does everything that's the opposite of his instincts. I was a total dick to this UNREAL girl. I figured, fuck, what the hell do I have to lose besides more hair?
And she ate it up!
At the end of the night she ended back up at our place briefly and she gave me her phone number. Huzzah! The fucking hottest girl on campus gave ME her number! The ugliest dude in our house! Some bald asshole! It was too good to be true.
So the next weekend rolls around, and I'm supposed to meet this girl at a party at a mutual female friend's house. Big party. So my roommates are all stoked for me, and decide to get me pretty drunk. My roommate Aaron started pouring me copious shots of vodka and wicked screwdrivers (phillips-head screwdrivers). I'm downing them like I've got a pair, because in reality I don't have a pair and was worried that she'd discover what a loser and tool I am. So I figured if I was hellified drunk, I could blame it on that.
Well, hellified drunk did I get!
Between the time we walked out our front door and the time we arrived at the party, I had become an absolute WRECK. And this party was seriously like 80% girls. A true gem of a party.
And then there was me.
I remember hearing that the girl hadn't shown up yet, so I was going around the party, interrupting people's nice conversations with my drunken insanity and generally ruining everyone's good time like I like to do when I'm schnookered. I think it's funny.
I end up running into a girl who after meeting me says "Wait, YOU'RE Dan the columnist!" (back story: I had a weekly column for three quarters for the main school paper during my time at OU). Absolutely fucking stoked to have found a fan (I had many, many, many, many, many people on campus who HATED my columns), I hugged her, uh, generously, quite a few times. I'm pretty sure I ruined my standing in her eyes after that.
So later now, and drunker -- far, far drunker -- the girl still hasn't arrived yet, and I'm in a conversation with my best college friend/roommate Jonathan and two girls, a brunette and a blonde, who claimed to know me and my roommate (but I couldn't remember them -- or who I was). The conversation wasn't really going anywhere (or anywhere my totally fucked up drunken self cared for), so I spent the majority of the time staring at the blonde's massive tits.
And the more I stared at them, the more they began to annoy me. They represented everything I hated about college. For this girl was wearing a shirt that just screamed "Hey, everybody! Look at these fuckers! Adore them! They are all that I have, and all that I am!" There was no modesty about the shirt. Barely anything left to the imagination. So in my twisted, drunken logic, I thought to myself, "Okay, sweet-tits, you want titty attention? I'll GIVE you titty attention!" and I crossed my arms and casually brushed one of them with my left hand.
"Dan, did you just touch her boob?" the brunette asks me.
"Um...."
I'm caught. I go in for the full grab.
The conversation has all of a sudden made an awkward shift in direction. The people around me are abuzz with... well, I'm not sure. Anger. Disappointment. Creeped-out-ness. Lots of bad vibes.
"What the hell is wrong with you? She's not an object! Blah blah blah blah" the brunette is shouting. At me. (What's with her?) So once again in my twisted drunken logic, I think to myself "This'll shut her up," and I grabbed (double-fisted) BOTH of HER tits.
"We gotta get Dan outta here," one of my roommates says to another. And all of a sudden we're leaving. What, a man can't molest two college girls in the middle of a party anymore?
I'm sorry, I thought this was America.
So we end up going to a bar, which I don't really remember. All I can recall is trying to check my voice mail -- quite unsuccessfully -- looking to see if my girl had called. At some point, after spending an unknown amount of time palm-mashing my phone, begging for it to work, I decided that I was just too drunk to stay out anymore.
I knew my limits.
So I walked back to my place, dragged the garbage can over next to my futon, and spent the next hour vomiting into my trash can.
And I swear to God, on my life and my mother's, that the last thoughts I remember that night were "Well, this is it. I'm not waking up tomorrow. I'm about to die. It's been a good run. I pretty much enjoyed myself. So long."
I woke up the next morning and my first thought was: "Oh my God...
"I am IMMORTAL!!!"
Afterword:
1. It
turns out the two girls I molested were in the journalism school with
me, and after apologizing profusely they forgave me. They saw what a
wreck I was and didn't take too much offense. 2. I had three voice mails the following morning.
The first: "Danny, it's Mom. It's 1:00 in the morning. Why do you keep calling here? I hope you're okay."
The second is from the girl: "Hey Dan, sorry I didn't catch you at the party, but I'll be at (a bar we'd frequent) 'til it closes. Hope I see you there!"
The third is also from the girl, and encapsulates the sum of my luck: "Dan, it's (her). It's like 3:00 in the morning and I'm really scared. I really don't want to be alone right now. Is there any chance I could come over there? Please call me back."
