Coin Operated.

3 Feb
Friday nights usually mean unnecessary drunkenness under most circumstances, and last night was no exception.

After class, I returned home to shower and get my sexy on, and shortly thereafter–5:46 p.m. to be exact–Johnny and I begin consuming Hawkeye by our lonesomes like it was going out of style. We decide to write Kehly a poem, much like Cole and I had written for Richard, to illustrate the progress of our diminishing sobriety. To give you an idea, I don’t remember writing any of the stanzas after 6:20 p.m., not 45 minutes after we began drinking. Soon into our isolated party, we invite Jeremy to join us.

Outgoing text messages during this time:

“We’re drinking hawleye. I’m on shot number 3.”
5:59 p.m.

“Doom’t wknow come over”
7:11 p.m.

“Love. I love wo!”
7:12 p.m.

“I amdrunk. So drunk Babysit me”
8:39 p.m. The texts following that last one are Fallout Boy lyrics. I don’t know why.

I decide to make a bag of popcorn. I do, and then realize I have no large bowl to put it in. To improvise, I found a large cooking pot and carelessly dumped the entire contents of the popcorn bag into the pot, which turned out to not be big enough to contain all the popcorn. A good third of the bag spilled to the floor where I left it to attract rodents. I proceeded to drown the popcorn in Lawry’s seasoning salt and continue making a mess all over the rug.

Several minutes and eight shots later, I apparently opt to drunk dial my boss from Taco John’s, which I did not remember doing until checking my outgoing today. I recall him telling me that he was watching a game or a play or something, and that he wasn’t as drunk as I was at that point. Yet. I inform him I will be working at Taco Gay when I return for Thanksgiving break, and he expresses his excitement about me calling him.

Then I called my manager and left him a distasteful voicemail on account of him not answering. Haha. Ohh.

Jeremy comes over and starts guzzling Lady Bligh at the speed of light (for those of you “prestigious” drinkers who actually spend money on alcohol, Lady Bligh is a generic version of Admiral Nelson which is a generic version of Captain Morgan. Yeahhh). At this point I am absolutely hammered, and am drifting in and out of consciousness. I remember eating large spoonfuls of peanut butter and jelly and turning down more shots because my brain was ceasing to function, along with the rest of my body.

This was probably the earliest I’ve ever started drinking in an evening, excluding of course tailgating days, and as expected it took a toll. Suddenly I find myself waking up, laying on the couch with a passed out John Kocourek at my feet. Jeremy is missing. I realize we have both passed out, and frantically check the time. 9:48. We had a keg to go to, and we had to get a move-on. We debate about just staying in because we were too drunk to walk, or getting our shit together and trucking it to Jefferson and Lucas. We ultimately decide to make an appearance at the keg on account of we didn’t want to feel like losers.

We arrive just before it starts downpouring outside. Good timing since I did my hair that night. I see Charles Jerkovich, who I decided to address as “Chuck” all night, in charge of selling keg cups. I explain to him that I am far too drunk to consume any measurable amount of beer, and propose paying somewhere in the neighborhood of two dollars as opposed to five for a cup since I would be drinking only that much. I don’t think he said no, but I know he didn’t say yes, so I left and met Erin Creedon in the kitchen, who volunteered to let me share her cup with her. This was a perfect compromise.

I venture into the living room where the keg was located, and again see “Chuck” wandering about with the bag of cups and wad of cash. He sees me with my cup and instead of interrogating me about how I got it, high-fived and commended me on pillaging one of my own. I decide that I like Chuck, and continue toward the keg.

There was a large group surrounding the beer of course, and I did not feel like waiting around for my turn to get my cup filled. I have no idea what it was that I said, but I said some hilariously clever and convincing sentence that made the person who was filling cups actually stop filling the cup she was tending to, reach through the crowd with the spout, and fill my cup before anyone else’s. I feel awesome, and return to the kitchen, now angry that I couldn’t remember what incredibly smart and funny thing I said to score in such a way. Although discontented by my inability to remember what I said, I quickly overcame my sadness by swallowing large gulps of Keystone. At some point, my eyes fall upon several quarters sitting on a counter, and dollar signs flash in my head in association with paying for the washing machines in the apartment building. I sneakily grab and pocket them.

I chit chat with Erin some more, and then start to notice how dysfunctional my body is. My brain felt perfectly fine, but my limbs weren’t responding as accurately as they should be. I stumble around and talk to Jon Ingram for a bit. He informs me that he works as a delivery guy for Gumby’s and has to go to work in an hour. I then look at the beer and cigarette in his hand and laugh heartily. “I like your style.” Johnny and I had been planning on going to Panchero’s all night, but realized that there was no way in hell our bodies could successfully carry us there without a) dying in a ditch, or b) getting a public intox; neither of which would get us our oversized burritos. Jon offers to drive us to Panchero’s upon his return to work. Again, I am very pleased.

That time comes, and we pile in the car with a few other drunken hooligans to get dropped off at our destination of Mexican flavor. On the way, I take a poll of everyone in the car, inquiring as to whether I should get a burrito or fajitas upon my arrival to Panchero’s. Everyone votes I get a burrito, and I am unhappy inside because deep down I wanted fajitas. For some reason I denote my own free will and listen to everyone else, in turn ordering a burrito against my desire for fajitas.

Cassie, Evelyn, and some girl I called “Darcy” because I didn’t know her name meet up with us at the restaurant and eat with us. We take a few disgusting pictures and Evelyn decides to steal a bottle of hot sauce. I suggest she scouts about to find a full bottle, but she settles for the one she has. About halfway through my burrito, I begin to feel uncomfortably full. Shortly thereafter, I realize I am on the verge of vomiting. Cassie feels the same. We become concerned that we won’t make it home in time to blow chunks, but try to put our discomfort out of our minds. Eventually we all head out, and Evelyn advises that in case I need to puke on my way home, to do it near a light pole or something because it would seem more classy. I don’t understand her reasoning, but agree to do so in case of an emergency.

Johnny and I start the trek homeward bound, leftovers in hand. A man with incredibly curly hair starts walking past me, and I ask him if I can feel his head. He says yes, and I do. A few steps later, I begin to pass a homeless girl with nasty black dreds holding a cup that says “place change here.” For some reason I feel compelled to oblige to her sign request, and the word “change” sprung the fact that I had theived quarters from the party into my memory. I tell the girl she’s a bitch because I’m giving her my well-earned stolen coins that I would otherwise be using for my laundry, and she reacts jubilantly with a giant smile and a gracious thank you.

Two seconds later, I tell Johnny to take my burrito for a second and not to follow me. “What are you doing?” he asks. I inform him that I am going to panhandle. I approach a couple of middle-aged women sitting on a bench, and sadly say that I desperately need just two dollars to get a cab back to “my dorm” because I only have $3. They feel bad for me and quickly hand over two $1 bills, and also add, “As long as you don’t drive, honey!” I tell them that driving was the last option on my mind, and that I probably could not operate a bicycle at that point.

I meet back up with Johnny across the way and explain how I lost my precious coins to homeless Harriet a block back, so I made up for it by panhandling five times as much. Reach for the stars, that’s what they’ve been teaching me all my life.

We continue to walk toward my neighborhood. I see a girl with giant jugs and exclaim, “Your boobs are HUUUUGE!” She and the gentleman she was with give a startled response. I keep walking. Johnny starts saying, “I don’t know why you brought the remaining half of your burrito. You’re never going to ea–” at that exact moment I hurl my burrito into the air and off of a bridge. We laugh, and finally make it home. I receive a text from Cassie that reads, “Becca I am burrito barf city.” I too am feeling very queasy at this point, and decide to go vomit. After several gut-wrenching regurgitations, I reply to Cassie: “Burrito barf city- population: 2.”

Haha. Oh, self.

Today I awake feeling very parched. I mosey to the bathroom to suck down H2O, and then decide to pee. I drop trou, and am greeted by an elephant labeled “Kehly” on my left thigh, and the word “Hi.” written on my right knee. I decide to consult my phone to see what sort of damage I did with my outgoing text messages and calls. It looked something like this:

Outgoing to my mother, 9:02 p.m.: “I’m an animal.”
She responds, “Like a skunk?”
My immediate reaction was to reply, “Drunk as a skunk,” but not knowing how she would take to such a response, I instead reply with, “I am blank as a skunk !?haha”
She didn’t get it.

“I miss you!” to Amy, 9:06 p.m. Any display of remote affection or emotion is a great indication that I am very, very drunk.

“In too drunk to walk and ontop of that I am sweating.” 10:48 p.m.

“Druuuuuuunk.” 11:58 p.m.

“I’m drunkl,” to an unidentified number; one that probably does not exist. 12:40 a.m.

“I just yammied.” 1:50 a.m.


I love the weekends.

“Some little Dominican bastard hits a tree with a shovel and a billion geckos fall on my head.”

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