Part II -- I don't get wasted... I get awkward

Once people arrive, it's time for the first shots of the evening. I single out, for some reason, the Myers' spiced rum and decide that the smell isn't too repulsive, so let's give it a go. Two shots of that, and Ivey is telling me that it's a cooking rum, but upon later contemplation I am pretty sure this is only a half-truth (we saw handles of it at the ABC store in Virginia -- by the way, another topic for another time is the absurd way in which the state of Virginia handles alcohol sales).

I'd been in touch with one of our rookies all night, and told him I'd keep him updated on the party situation. I explained that the girls had messed up the tap, and that I had been thwarted in my attempts to buy further beverages, but we'd amassed a random assortment of liquors at Claridge. Max arrives, and as I'm pouring a shot of vodka, he says "If that's for me, then you'd better pour three of them," or something to that effect. Of course, though I was in no way looking to upstage anyone, I did not want to allow myself to be upstaged, so three it was, for me as well.

Shortly thereafter, I'm fairly well on my way to Boris Yeltsin levels of drunkness - coherent enough to run the Russian government, or the Mount Vernon shuttle, but soused enough to loosen my tongue slightly and get a little on the belligerent side. I have since determined that three vodka shots are no way to start an evening, merely 20 minutes after shots of that rum. Actttuallly, under the right circumstances that's not that bad. Here's where things start to get hard to remember.

I remember that the clown spoon made yet ANOTHER appearance at this party, and that I hit a bunch of people with it. I also remember Brittany yelling at me for drinking and Bagels often making the "nish-nish" motion at me (from Da Ali G Show). Also, I remember Premie walking around pantsless, saying something about "This is my house, and I don't require pants!" Of course, my pants were off within the next minute or so, and I slipped into not having any memory of specific things.

I've been told I fought off Kanika for the clown spoon. I made several of those drinks I like, the Moscow Mule. I spoke in Russian a lot, and I actually do remember that more or less. I also vaguely remember talking to Max for some time. I think the more important reasons I don't like not-remembering things is that I could have been having a perfectly cromulent conversation at this point. Later on... not so much, in fact I've been told I was quite awkward and inappropriate, and for that appropriate reparations will be made. The point is, alcohol loosens my tongue (to which all of you 21st birthday participants can attest) and THIS is the main reason why I need to ensure I never find myself in such a state of over-the-top intoxication ever again. Along with being unable to recall what could have been a perfectly productive and interesting conversation.

That and waking up ASS NAKED ON THE COUCH IN THE FEMALE DEANS' INTERNS' ROOM. You heard me. All of the Deans' Interns live in a cluster of rooms. I do not remember returning to my room, but I do know that I did not have my backpack, contained within which were my wallet and roomkey. So it would seem that I ended up down the hall, in the room of the three female Deans' Interns by some twist of fate. I woke up at 8:24AM, naked as Ethan at Anything But Clothes and in the fetal position, covered by a somewhat inadequate blanket, and quite cold. I look up and see a box with a Package Services label, with a big "E" written on it. My last name does not begin with E, and even though I was still wasted at this point, I put two and two together and realized that E was for Leah E, one of my coworkers. I was struck with an unfathomable horror of not remembering my night -- what I said, to whom I was inappropriate, whether or not I had yarfed, WHY I WAS NAKED ON THEIR COUCH. All important questions. Even when you are still wasted at 9:00AM.

For the moment, though, I needed pants. I found them and my boxers over by one of the desks, put them back on and actually went back to sleep on their couch. I was awakened, strangely enough, by my phone, which was vibrating on the floor. Gigabyte had texted me that my backpack was still in his apartment. I called, and Giga told me that I could just walk in and take it, the door would be unlocked. This was great news, because it meant that I didn't have to face any of my coworkers after what I am sure was a wholly embarassing situation for all involved. So I walked over to Claridge, and, lo and behold, Waltzing Matilda, everyone's favorite urine-soaked LEGITIMATELY INSANE homeless person is outside of her alleyway screaming at the top of her lungs. Imagine a chain-smoking single mother coming home from her job at the cereal factory, yelling at her teenage daughter for being a "slut," and a "goddamned whore." That is what Waltzing Matilda was doing at this point. Except without a slutty daughter - just Waltzing Matilda and the passing cars.

After being creeped out by this and speedwalking past Her Horridness, I get up to Gigabyte's room and retrieve my horribly misplaced backpack. I checked the freezer, to see if my previously two-thirds-finished handle was still there. It was not. Apparently, I killed it, possibly with help from Max, but reports on the fate of my Stolichnaya handle are spotty at best. I also don't know where the bottle is, but I do know I wanted to keep it, so that's sad news. I got my roomkey, and passed out in my own bed for about an hour before... surprise! 11AM practice!

Thanks to Pete and his no-longer-needed rental van, I didn't have to walk down to the fields, but even on arrival, I was still hammered. But I came on time. And I was out there leading my half of practice while still shit-housed.

So what have I learned? Starting off with five rapid fire shots is not actually that bad of an idea. It becomes a bad idea if... a) you follow it up with a shitload of mixed drinks and b) there are lots of friends there to do additional shots with. Rolling to parties with a handle may not be the smartest idea either, as then quantity is removed as a limiting factor.

Either way, piecing together such a night is delicate business, but I think I am okay with any filling-in of the story people wish to make. Though I do think I'll have to have a few drinks in me before I actually find out what type of guts I spilled post-rememberance. Either way, if nothing else, a good story, and all my social ties seem to be intact (most important thing). So for now... party on, and someone slap me upside the head with the clown spoon if I get awkward again.