The "Swan Song" Weekend

My first year at UCSB was regaled with tales of drunken stupors, missed classes, and a fucked up intestinal tract. However, one weekend truly captures the essence my freshman year. It was the weekend exactly one month before finals started for spring quarter. It also marked the blood oath that I took promising to forego any alcohol or mind altering substances until after finals. (This oath really only existed in theory, and looked good on paper. Truth is, I cannot remember a week going by in college that I haven’t gotten stupendously blitzed out of my mind)

Aside from the insaneness of this weekend and the lasting memories it will have, it did provide a moment in time for a little self reflection. (I think that reflection lasted all of one week) Here’s how it went down:

It is Friday, around two in the afternoon. My head is still throbbing from the alcohol-induced coma I put myself in the night before. My phone blasts from underneath my pillow, it is SZM. He is in Isla Vista, and ready to drink. So am I.

We ponder as to what would be the best way to start off the day, and conclude unanimously that a thirty rack of Natural Light will best quench our libation. So it begins.

SZM and I sit around my apartment for the next five hours, attacking the thirty pack of fermented bull urine with a vengeance. The apartment that I lived in this year was abysmal. Even by Isla Vista standards of grime and filth, my “home” was comparable to New Orleans after Katrina.

Allow me to paint a picture:

The walls had been colorfully spray painted with pictures and euphemisms, each more atrocious than the next. Large orange and green dicks adorned the entry way, while the likes of the late great George Carlin’s “7 Dirty Words You Can’t Say” were tagged from ceiling to floor across the walls of the living room.

The bathroom regularly emitted a stale smell of vomit, the type only found after trying to hold down a monster burrito subsequent to pounding a fifth of vodka. The tile was strait out of the 1970’s; I’m not sure if the original color was yellow, or if a thin caked on layer of dried urine had formed over the top of it.

The floors were some god-awful replica of your grandparent’s house, with the long brown shag carpet that was absolutely impossible to vacuum. Pubic hairs infiltrated each nook and cranny, while condom wrappers and empty beer cans graced every available table and countertop.

I would liken living in this abomination to contracting herpes, but that would imply living in my apartment was only sometimes an open sore of awful. Needless to say, it was more than difficult to bring a girl back here. At least when the lights were on.

The day drags by slowly, we watch T.V., recounting tales of drunken bedlam from out first years away at college. Finishing the thirty rack by seven p.m., SZM looks over at me. I know that look all too well. Shit is about to get taken to another level.

We head out to purchase to deadliest cocktail to hit college campuses’ since Timothy Leary dosed everyone in the 1960’s with LSD. Red Bull and Vodka.

Now, when I drink normally I can sustain a reasonable level of civility around other people. But, when fueled with vodka and liquid amphetamine, I turn maniacal. All sense of normalcy is thrown out the window, I do or act however I please, make loud and offensive remarks, and can typically be found the next morning lying in a lake of my own piss.

This night was no different.

After polishing off the bottle in world record time, we begin the pilgrimage through the heaps of people walking the streets of Isla Vista. It is at this point I black out, apparently those seven, or was it ten? shots of vodka had finally crept up on me.

Typically when I succumb to the ethereal powers of alcohol, I can hardly function. You know in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, when Depp takes a couple huffs of ether and walks into the casino; yeah, that’s me when I am blacked out. I lose complete control over my body, barely able to stand, let alone form a coherent sentence.

Somehow, maybe through divine intervention, I manage to not only hold a conversation with a girl, but actually hook up with her. Now before I go into any detail about the events that transpired, let me share with you some of my friend’s descriptions from the next day:

- I was told she was uglier than me

- My one friend told me he almost vomited when he saw her groping me at the party

- She is a complete whore (and not just the slutty kind. The kind that gets passed up and down the hallway of the dorms)

- I have no standards

My friends are dicks.

Fast forward to three o’ clock in the morning, I come out of my black-out, mid-coitus with a girl whom I have no recollection of, but can only assume it be the same one from the party.

I think about where the fuck I am, at the same time trying to decipher whether or not I was smart enough to use a condom. I was not. Hello Hepatitis!!!

I notice the bland office-style carpet, the compartmentalized study desks, and of course the oddly rectangular shaped room. I am back in my old stomping ground, the University Dorms. God I loved this place; only because maids would clean my room and girls would do my laundry.

After the awkward sex I try to be cordial, but instead I just stand up and get dressed without even really acknowledging her. I still don’t know her name, and I can safely assume she doesn’t know mine either. I suppose in ten years when I am summoned by the court for a paternity test this will be the root cause.

Before I realize just how disgusting I am and what I have done, I am sprinting back to my apartment. I feel cheap, used and in all probability, infected. As soon as I get home, I immediately hop into the shower, scrubbing myself like a rape victim, with the logic that I will somehow avoid the impending V.D.

I have to be at my first day of work at the movie theater in seven hours. I cry myself to sleep.

The afternoon rolls around, I wake up to an apartment littered with empty bottles of liquor, spilled ashtrays, and lifeless bodies. I HATE my life.

I arrive at the movie theater still drunk from the previous night. I look like transient who had just taken a bath in a dumpster. My clothes are stained and wrinkled; my body is a human heat pump, pushing out all order of toxins through every pore in my body.

I want to quit the moment I show up, but like any weekend warrior, I put this thought out of my head and focus solely on that first drink. The one you build up in your head all day while you’re at work; it’s the same feeling you get when you know you are about to climax. Every minute that passes by sheds one more glimmer of hope into your disastrously depressing existence.

My co-workers are an eclectic mess of high-school kids, all who look like they had just gotten out of a Magic the Gathering convention. Each one is more awkward and annoying than the next. I am pretty sure I am the only person there who is legally allowed to smoke cigarettes, and fairly certain I’m the only person who is drunk.

My hand shakes nervously as I hand some old couple their soda and nachos, or perhaps it is delirium tremors. Fuck it; other people’s opinions regarding my alcoholism are not a high priority on my list anyway.

While the overall job is not entirely degrading, there is one truly embarrassing aspect. Because this theater is located right next to Isla Vista, on the weekends, droves of hot girls flock toward my place of employment. Everyone of them glancing at me with indignation and pity. I secretly pray they are going to get fat and have retarded kids.

While serving my peers and elderly couples in a monkey suit certainly sucked in a variety of ways, by far the worst part of my job had to come from the exchanges with my supervisor, Steve.

Steve was by all intents and purposes a nerd; he looked, acted, and even sounded the part.

His high pitched lisp caused by his newly tightened braces, and sporadic voice crack, would send me into fits of rage as he ordered me to “clean thsaa urinuuls.” My life sucks.

When a kid whose balls haven’t even dropped is ordering me around like I am his subordinate, I channel all of my inner peace to not erupt in an immense and spectacular explosion of hate and violence.

I make my most earnest attempt to not slam this pre-pubescent dick-wad into the popcorn machine.

By the end of the day, instead of actually listening to my “superiors,” I make friends with one kid and we spend the remainder of the day outback behind the theater smoking cigarettes.

We chain smoke for what seems like an hour, when I realize I am outta this bitch. The feeling of euphoria that rushes through your body at that moment is as mind-numbing as the “Bolivian Marching Powder.”

It is seven o’ clock when I arrive back at my apartment. My body odor is an assortment of popcorn oil, stale sweat, and moldy urinal cakes.

When I walk in the front door I find SZM. This lanky 6’5” mother fucker is standing in the middle of my living room sloshing a half empty bottle of vodka around in the air like he is a goddamn caveman. I mean for FUCKSAKE, it’s not even dark out and this kid is completely bombed. I need to start drinking and catch up.

SZM knows my buttons, and uses this knowledge for his own benefit. Luring me into the trap that many a male ego fall into when our manhood is called into question. I begin to drink faster.

In between shots of vodka and beer bongs, I am being constantly harassed by this imbecile, yelling at me “DRINK YOU FUCKING PUSSY! YOU CANT DRINK FOR SHIT NASH! GROW A PAIR!”

I hate my friends. (I solely blame SZM for what happened this night)

Over the next hour and a half I am force fed a steady diet of liquor and Red Bull, using a small mountain of cocaine as my chaser.

“I AM FUCKING HIGH.” I proclaim to no one in particular.

After smoking an exorbitant amount of cigarettes to alleviate the chemical drip in the back of my throat, SZM and I are headed out to what proved to be a night of epic adventure. Unfortunately, I do not remember any of it having doused my brain in a speedball stew.

I DO however, remember the next morning.

I wake up, my eyes are puffed and crusty, barely able to focus as I come out of my drunken slumber.

I realize I am naked.

I am slightly worried.

I am wrapped up in a piece of carpet on a hardwood floor. Kinky sex? Not likely.

I briefly panic, feigning laughter at the thought that my virgin ass has been sodomized.

I look around the room and realize I am not in Isla Vista.

FUCK!!!! FUCK ME!!! WHERE THE FUCK AM I?

Panic, mania, and stress all kick in at once. I stand up and scramble my way out of the burrito de carpet.

I feel vulnerable as I try to process my surroundings; having no clue where the hell I am, I stumble toward the corner of the room and find my clothes sitting right on top of a pile of what I can only assume are my popcorn and vodka from the night before.

I get dressed quickly, disregarding the fact my jeans are completely soaked in my own vomit and piss, and begin the arduous task of finding an exit. By the time I finally get outside, I conclude that I am on West Campus.

[For those unfamiliar with the topography of the region, please consult Figure 1-Fuck.My.Life. below. I live on the south side of Isla Vista, closer to campus. West Campus and more specifically Cliff House, (which is where I woke up) is a solid two miles away from my apartment. It took me 20 minutes of strait running to get home. How this shit happens to me, I don’t know.]

Figure 1-F.M.L.

I don’t have time to think about this as I am hopping a chain linked fence to get down to the beach. I look at my phone; I have to be at work in four hours.

Seriously. FUCK. MY. LIFE.

Cocaine and laughing gas

The summer after my high school graduation was one of the most memorable times in my life; in that I don’t really remember much of it.

Drugs were bountiful, liquor flowed like Niagara Falls, and I couldn’t wait to get the fuck out of the godforsaken redneck town, I adoringly called home.

While this time in my life was mostly spent unconscious and/or uncontrollably vomiting, one night stands out from all the rest.

One of my best friends, Tryme, was leaving to go to University of California San Diego the next day. Logically, my friends and I decide we are going to throw a going away party for him. The night went like this:


It’s Friday night, and I’m sitting in my room watching the Los Angeles Dodger’s get their ass handed to them, hands cupping my balls, when my cell phone rings. It’s my buddy White-I.

Ryan: “Hey what’s up”

White-I: “Hey fool, what are you up to?”

Ryan: “Jack shit. What about you?”

W-I: “Just chillin. We’re gunna throw a going away party for Tryme. Cruise over.”

Ryan: “I don’t have a ride.”

W-I: “uhhhh……ask your parents.”

Ryan: “Hahahaha, they hate me”

W-I: “Fuck. Ride a bike.”

Ryan: “Why don’t you just come get me?”

W-I: “I’m drunk already.”

Ryan: “So, you pussy.”

W-I: “Just fucking ride a bike”

Ryan: “dude, that’s like six fucking miles.”

W-I: “don’t be a pile”

Ryan: “…..whatever, I’ll be there in like an hour. There better be some booze and blow ready for me.”

W-I: “Hahaha. For sure.”


After about ten minutes of contemplating whether or not to go, I get my fat-ass up out of bed and get dressed. I quickly say good-bye to the parental unit and hop on my Huffy 12-speed. I ride in style.

30 minutes and 4 cigarettes later, I finally arrive at my destination. Sweating like a field worker, I trudge up the stairs, out of breath and barely able to stand.

I stomp through the front door and demand alcohol, threatening violence if denied the sweet grain elixir. I am not disappointed, as the spread of booze in front of me is vast. I am starting to feel better, and the thought of having to bike home is not even crossing my mind.

The night starts out mellow enough, some casual drinking and the occasional bong-rip being blown in my face. We stand around reminiscing about all the stupid and crazy shit that we had done throughout high school. The list was long.

A couple of hours pass by, and everyone has a pretty good buzz going when our friend Kwiddy shows up. He is by far the grimiest of the bunch. Personal hygiene was not his strong suit. As per his usual self, Kwiddy comes up with the brilliant, yet disturbing idea of doing whip-its. For those of you who don’t know, a whip-it is when you inhale a balloon full of laughing gas, or nitrous oxide. It is the same stuff dentists use to numb the pain when they rip out your teeth, and it is also sold legally, in tiny silver canisters. It has some frivolous warning label on the side of it that describes the domestic uses and warnings about its illegal uses. (We obviously disregarded this and deem it unimportant)

The collective group is less than enthusiastic about the prospect of inhaling what is sure to kill millions of functional brain cells that are going to be in short supply once in college. I on the other hand, am always willing to sacrifice a few brain cells in the interest of well…pretty much any drug. This reaction is most common when I have had a few drinks. I can be talked into pretty much anything when intoxicated, hooking up with ugly girls and taking drugs included.

Kwiddy and I hop in his little white beater-truck and drive to the hole-in-the-wall erotica shop that sells these silver bullets of death. I start to feel the effects of the four beer bongs and three shots of Cuervo, (that’s casually drinking, isn’t it?) and am immediately drawn to the sex toy section like Charlie Sheen to a three dollar hooker. I find the two-foot dildo’s fascinating and begin to swing them around the store like I am Sir Lancelot of King Arthur’s Court. I next try to simulate a mock latex orgy between various toys, when Kwiddy drags me over to the counter to pay for the nitrous.

12 canisters, 30-pack of balloons, and 1 tool for releasing the gas. $26

Hello high blood pressure and an early grave.

We drive back to White-I’s apartment, and I am giddy. Not only did we just secure enough nitrous to kill half of the operating brain cells in my body, I spot my buddy Codan’s van in the parking lot. His presence means two things for me:

1. Cocaine has officially made its debut to the party, and

2. There is a distinct possibility that I will either
a. Get arrested
b. Become loud, cursing everything and one around me
c. Overdose
d. All of the above


Kwiddy and I walk into the apartment, and the party is in full on demolition mode. Excesses of alcohol, marijuana, and cocaine are being consumed like the Seventh Sign of the Apocalypse is evident.

I immediately load up my first balloon. Praying to all gods, that they will hopefully save me from cardiac arrest in the event of an overdose; I exhale deeply, and put the tie-die balloon up to my quavering lips and suck hard.

I stand up on wires; used to be functioning legs, and start to talk.

“whoooaaahhh, guuuuuuys. Thiiiiiiiisssss shiiiiittt iiissss fuuuucking weeeeiird”

While the high is a mere blissful fifteen seconds, all of the sensory perceptions in your body rapidly dissipate and your voice unquestionably sounds like Shaquille O’Neal. My head floated calmly three feet above my body while I tried to regain a sense of equilibrium and sit back down.

Fuck. This shit cannot be good for me. And it’s only my first one.

I load another.

Goodbye promising future.

I load another.

God I hope the University of Phoenix will still accept me as I most assuredly will now fail out of UCSB.

After a solid half-hour of intermittently sucking pure poison directly into my lungs and taking handle pulls of vodka, I examine the scene in front of me. The floor is a littered with a myriad of empty canisters, balloons, and beer bottles. I quietly sit back in my chair and try to push the depressing thought of biking home out of my mind.

Quick and deathly, the cocaine finds its way across the room towards me. Or was it me who actively sought out and demanded that I be able to snort the celestial powder? At this point, the truth is negligible.

Over the next three hours, my life took place between a mirror of cocaine, a handle of bourbon, and a living room besieged with empty canisters of hopeless dreams.
Somewhere in this jungle of alcohol, blow, and laughing gas, I predictably, black out.

The story unfortunately does not end there. It gets better (at least from a third party perspective).



THE NEXT DAY



The following morning I awake in my own bed at my house. My sheets look like a back-alley abortion had just been performed on them. My nice white down comforter is thoroughly soaked in a red sea of my blood. My head and feet are both throbbing with pain, and I can feel my irregular heart beat at the open sores on both my forehead and all along my foot. I begrudgingly look down, prepared to see a bloodied stump, only to be greeted by a mixture of white puss decorated with dark black gravel. (Did I mention I was wearing sandals when I biked home? Yeah I’m not very smart.)

As I am trying to gain my bearings, as well as pick off the dried blood that had become matted into my hair, my mom walks into the room. She looks at me with complete disbelief and horror. I tell her that a car had ran a red light, nearly colliding with my bike, causing me to crash on to the pavement (even when inebriated I am still quick to come up with some bullshit excuse for my drunk shenanigans. A blessing or a curse? Who cares at this point).

The truth of the matter is I don’t remember how the fuck I managed to get home that night. My bike was outside my house, damaged, but still in working condition. It still boggles my mind to this day, that I was able to ride my bike, six miles down the busiest street in my city, eat shit so hard as to bust my head open, still get back up and ride home, all the while not being arrested. For once in my life, the gods of alcohol were on my side.

Jail Bird

Nearly all of my life has been dictated on my terms, and I pretty much act and do whatever I want without consideration to the consequences of my actions. Unfortunately, I have finally been spayed and neutered. During my final year at UCSB, over winter break, instead of going snowboarding in Tahoe or getting sloshed in Vegas and buying hookers and blow, I was the lucky recipient of being sentenced to twenty-two days in the San Luis Obispo County Jail.

Throughout my entire life, neither my parents, nor teachers, nor drug counselors have been able to impart any wisdom into my complex and convoluted morality system. I am far and away the cockiest and most arrogant person I know. I am completely selfish, and until I was about 20 years old, I didn’t even realize that my actions affected other people. I loved living in this fantasy world, where no one mattered but me. Sadly, like any Shakespearean Tragedy, your protagonist must eventually meet his maker, and mine came in the form of a balding decrepit judge and an over-zealous district attorney who couldn’t find matching parts for his suit at the Goodwill.

While I was certainly not housed with the television clad stereo-type, of a 330lb. Crip gang-member, nor did Squirrel Man defend me from Nasty Nate to protect my fruit cup, I did learn how to sequester my personality and my loud mouth. This primarily meant not making off the cuff remarks about everyone’s inability to speak English with even the slightest form of proper linguistic training, or telling the guards that it would serve them well not to eat food prepared by inmates.

Although jail is supposed to be a dark, morose, and depressing place, I couldn’t help but to laugh at the absurdity of everything and one around me.

Here are some examples:

*MY NEW NOMENCLATURE*


Correctional Officer – A/K/A – C.O. (n):

This is the fat, white, doughy, douchebag that is supposed to be emulating an officer of the law. Instead, he is an obnoxious and condescending pole-smoker who wields his power over 18-25 year old kids to boost his deflated self image. Perhaps this symptom is brought about by the fact he knows his life is a complete failure, or that his obese beat-down wife of six years thinks the thought of sex is disgusting, and he is thus relegated to masturbation, after she puts the three kids to sleep. This is the guy in high school who never got laid, was overweight, ugly, and was most undoubtedly made fun of by people like me.

Karma is a bitch.


Barter (v):

An exchange of goods for another type of good or service. This occurs when you are trying to get clean clothes from out of your locker and some cholo, who is clearly gang affiliated, walks up to you and propositions you with the following:

Cholo: Ay, so wud up homez?
Ryan: Not much man.
Cholo: Ay, so lemme’ ask you sumptin.
Ryan: Yeah, what’s up?
Cholo: So you smoke cigz or wut homez?
Ryan: Yeah, why?
Cholo: So, check dis. I can get you like a tub of peenit butter like diz big so you can make some sanwhiches and shit homez. I’ll trade it to you for like 4 cigz.

I blankly stare and try to come up with a diplomatic response that will not offend him.

Ryan: No thanks man. Maybe later though
Cholo: O.K. homez, lemme know if you be needin it later though


Riding the Pine (v):

To sit outside on a group of wooden benches, all fucking day long. Of course because jail sucks, society has deemed it necessary for you to be woken up at 5:30 a.m. to eat and then be herded outside like mindless cattle to freeze on said benches. This activity is especially gruesome when either raining and/or windy. To further demoralize inmates who are ‘riding the pine’, a basketball and volleyball court are positioned right next to these benches, just to reemphasize the fact that your life sucks, because the Correctional Officer’s won’t let you play.

I contend that the benches themselves exist outside of the current mathematical model of Space-Time by Albert Einstein which states that time, gravity, and space are all unified. It is my postulation that time is so greatly warped around these benches and slowed down to such an infinitesimally small segment just so God can mock you.


Chow (n):

A form of matter. I know this because it occupies a space and has mass. I assume it is meant for human consumption, but starvation looked just as appetizing. Chalk full of sodium and got knows what else; this “gray matter” as it was affectionately referred to by some inmates, had many side effects on the healthy functioning human digestive system. The most common adverse effect was nausea. I always kept a full glass of water near me to help choke down this slop into my barren, bile-filled stomach. However this was not the worse part. This allegedly edible horseshit had the effect of eating wet cement. It quickly turned my rectum into a certifiable cinder-block, preventing any excretion from leaving my body. I normally have at least one bowel movement per day; over the twenty-two I was inside, I think I had three.


Retardation (adj.):

Typically thought of as a mental defect that is developed in the mother’s womb (through excessive drinking and methamphetamine consumption) and diagnosed in early childhood. This is wrong. The amount of verbal diarrhea that spouted from people’s mouths was more consistent than the Chicago Cubs not winning a World Series. Malapropisms and misnomers were more abundant than disease on a cheap whore. Every conversation I heard or was a part of lacked any form of critical thinking skills, let alone common sense. This disease can be observed in the inmates with overt displays of being thug or gangsta’. It also afflicts the common meth-addicted inmate, whom cannot for the life of him say or contribute anything meaningful to a conversation without relating it back to shooting up.


The Fish Tank (n):

The women’s section of a county jail. The name is derived from the rank potpourri of bad pussy and cum-laden breath of the women who are serving their debt to society. While I never personally stepped foot in this labyrinth of beaten wives and ex-girlfriends, I did occasionally see them and often was told stories of the type of girl who resided therein. To say these girls were ugly is a compliment. Most couldn’t find work as a Tijuana hooker. While nearly all of the men in jail are certainly repulsive and useless masses of human life, the woman go above and beyond this terribly true characterization. I begrudgingly went without sex or rubbing one out for twenty-two days, but whenever I found myself getting half-chub in my pants, I quickly thought of this place, and like clockwork my dick would crawl back inside like a scared turtle.


Stay up playa’ (v):

A farewell. Usually spoken from one inmate to another as one is about to be released from custody. The convict saying the farewell is a fat freckly doofus. The recipient has the social I.Q. of an untrained hamster. Naturally, both the inmate leaving custody and the one still inside are both unambiguously redneck, therefore the phrase must me enounced in an extremely ghetto inflection that persons of his culture have come to adopt. Also it is fitting when the person yelling said phrase resembles the catcher from the Sandlot (on meth).



MY NEW FRIENDS

*My Bunkmate – A/K/A – Bunkie*

This three-hundred pound gorilla looked like he recently got out of a Neo-Nazi hate camp. He had all the tell-tale signs of being a Hitler Youth, and brought up in some broken trailer park in the Midwest. The expression on his face was congruent to the guy with the bitter beer face. Tattoo’s adorned both arms from shoulder to wrist, with depictions of satanic emblems, fiery skulls, and of course the crowd favorite, the swastika. My personal favorites were the tattoos’ emblazoned across his back and the one atop that dome shaped melon of a head. The one on his back proudly stated that “Jesus Was A Pussy,” and the Iron Cross was stamped over about 30% of his head. Yes, my Bunkie was undeniably a misguided youth-turned neo-Nazi, which I could forgive, if it weren’t for his enormous lack of dedication to the white power movement.

He would constantly and enthusiastically engage in conversations with minorities, as well as use a dialect that closely mirrored 50-Cent, and not your typical Ku Klux Klansmen. I often sat and watched this stout speed freak, just to laugh at the constant contradictions of his claimed heritage/ideology to his mannerisms and character traits.

His skin was that white/pinkish pasty hue, brought about by years huddled inside a trailer cooking methamphetamine. I honestly could not tell whether this real life Shrek had psoriasis or just hundreds of skin lesions peppered across his body. He always boasted about having sex with numerous hot girls (Cue my gag reflex), yet I truly believe most people would rather contract S.A.R.S. than to have to endure such a grotesque and disfigured body form.

*The Tweakers*

This hodgepodge of maladjusted and socially inadequate inmates was far and away the most prevalent group within the jail population. Because this social group was so large and undeniably hilarious, I will describe some of the characteristics of all of them as a single entity.

Teeth were a rare commodity for most of the tweakers that I encountered. I think I met one with a full set. And they were dentures. Now personally, I have never tried meth (or at least I won’t publicly admit to it), but I do understand addiction. In just the short time I have inhabited this tiny blue planet, I would say I have at one point been legally addicted to at least three different substances. However, the meth addict is a completely different breed. I enjoy a bender as much as the next guy, taking a nice three or four day vacation from reality and immersing myself in a plethora of cocaine, ecstasy, or alcohol. But it eventually comes to a grinding halt on Sunday morning when I wake up in a puddle of my own vomit and sweat, with a headache only an eight-ball of coke and a handle of cheap vodka can produce. This group however, will do almost anything to procure this drug. At all times, and by any means necessary. I am pretty sure, had I possessed a gram of meth, I could have gotten my dick sucked by at least a handful of inmates, a dozen times each.

Tweakers wore their scars like badges of honor from Vietnam, each proudly displaying their tract marks of where their favorite spot to shoot the drug into their vein was. Another distinct characteristic of this subspecies was the incessant moving of the jaw. It was as if a puppet master were moving their ventriloquist dummy, mashing together the yellow, baked bean like teeth in a quick, jerky motion. I don’t know whether to feel bad for these people or to laugh openly in their face. I will go with the latter, mostly due to the fact I was the source of much ridicule as I was deemed “Not addicted to cigarettes” because I refused to pick butts out of the trash can and empty the discarded tobacco into cellophane so as to roll another death stick.

The Blind Date

The summer before I left for college, I spent the majority of my time working. The other ninety-five percent of my time I spent it drinking, mostly with one of my good friends SZM. I met SZM my sophomore year of high school. We immediately became friends, probably because our pre-disposition to alcoholism and outlandish behavior. While this story is one of the more contemptible moments in my life, it is far and away one of the luckiest as well. I only wish I had really remembered it.

It was a typical Friday in my home town, and by that I mean I am trying to get drunk and/or high on some artificial substance to take away the agonizing pain that comes with living in a town inhabited by middle class, white baby boomers; all too far removed from the sixties to truly understand the need to abuse drugs and alcohol.

SZM and I are driving around town; well he is driving, I am taking pulls from a fifth of vodka, as the state of California had recently revoked my privilege to operate a motor vehicle due to some minor legal discrepancies, the details of which are not relevant to this story.

The reason for our endeavor was to purchase a birthday gift for his little brother, who had just turned the legal age to die for his country, as well as purchase sexually explicit material. We decided to pursue the latter.

As we made our way into the local sex shop, looking to purchase the finest in adult entertainment, SZM propositioned me with what soon became one of the worst decisions of his life.

Over the recent months he met a girl that he had begun to date, who we will hereto after refer to as Tina. She was very cute and very nice, but also exceedingly naïve. She lacked a certain understanding of how idiotic, immature, eighteen year old males acted when fortified with cheap alcohol.

Now, SZM had planned to take Tina on a date that night to the movies. Unfortunately she was having a foreign-exchange student stay with her from Spain. This is where I become relevant to the story.
Tina did not want to leave her friend alone at home, so she asked SZM if she could come along with them on their date. He in turn asked me if I would come out with him and accompany this other girl, who we will refer to as Lola.

BIG. FUCKING. MISTAKE.

SIDE NOTE:

Let me make this very clear. SZM knew I had been drinking early in the day, which he and I both know will inevitably lead to me making very poor decisions. Worse yet, SZM knows that I am a very loud and boisterous individual, and that this effect is heightened exponentially when alcohol finds its way into my system.

The first class I ever had with SZM, he bore witness to my braggadocio up close and personal.
Being a depraved and immoral drug addict, I was liable to come to school under the influence of some drug or other at any given time.

Sophomore year was primarily marijuana, with the occasional pain killer thrown in to spice things up. Junior and senior year were a grab bag of stimulants, alcoholic spirits, and muscle relaxants.

However, about half way through my junior year, I discovered a revolutionary device used for carrying cocaine and snorting it indiscriminately. The Bullet. This is a small glass and plastic tool that holds coke in it, fits easily into your pocket, and allows the user to snort the drug in small doses all without spilling any while not in use. (For any of those interested, I highly recommend them)

As you can probably guess, I would often bring this Neat-O apparatus with me to school. Well one day in particular SZM and I are sitting in the back of a mechanical engineering class, when I decide to bust out my bullet and take a few hits. I act very nonchalant about this, like this is no different than taking out a pencil sharpener.

SZM looks at me the same way my parents do. Complete disappointment. Obviously my knack for breaking laws has become a recurring theme, and is probably one of the more robust aspects to my arrogance. I am indeed ABOVE the law. (At least in this story)

In this same class, the teacher and I had some difficulties; probably because I felt I was smarter than him and treated him as my subordinate. Well, one day he requested that I address him as “Dr. Black,” (apparently he had a Ph.D., but he was only a high school teacher, so I had my doubts) I of course felt that he did not garner this type of respect, so I responded that if I were to address him as “Doctor” then he “may refer to me as Lord Ryan.” Yeah I was a bit of a prick in high school.

BACK TO THE STORY:

I of course was giddy with the idea of trying to hookup with some girl from a foreign land, and immediately obliged.

Around 9:30 that night, the two girls show up at SZM’s House. I had been drinking moderately throughout the day, making it my goal not to not pass out and vomit on my date’s shoulder in the movie theater. I am clearly buzzed, but still able to function like a somewhat coherent and normal human. At this point in the night I am supremely optimistic about the night’s unfolding. (NOTE: obvious foreshadowing)

As Tina and Lola walk through the front door, I am in fucking shock. Not only is this girl hot, she has got that sexy foreign accent that comes only with truly Spanish women. We all hang out for a while, me chatting up Lola, shamelessly flirting with her; all the while she is eating it up. I’ve got this girl laughing at everything I say, leaning into me as we walk out the door to the car, and giving off that vibe of “I want to make you my American slave boy.”

Prior to entering the Cineplex, being the obnoxious and idiotic drunks we are, SZM and I hang out in the parking lot, alternately taking shots of the apple flavored vodka that we had brought with us. That’s normal, isn’t it?

As we walk into the theater, SZM and I are completely hammered. I have no clue what movie we are about to see, nor do I care. We have a bottle of booze with us and are hanging out with hot girls. All is right in the world. The only thought running through my vodka-addled brain, is having Lola go down on me in the theater, making the floors sticky for an entirely different reason than spilt soda.

Unfortunately, the gods of alcohol had different plans.

Before the movie even begins, I become bored with the coming attractions, and excuse myself from the group to use the restroom. Instead of relieving my bladder like a normal person, I decide I am going to use the money in my pocket to go into the arcade section of the cinema. The kids occupying this area look like they came strait out of Comic-Con; acne and braces were the standard attire. I am clearly not as cool as I think I am.

Now, as much I would love to say that I beat these computer nerds at their own game, and then was able to go back into the theater and hook up with Lola, I sadly cannot.

Unfortunately, I was thoroughly PWNED by my junior adversaries and forced to walk back to my seat with my tail between my legs. I am still drunk though, so clearly I came out the obvious winner.

Now, as surreal and unbelievable as these events may seem, the following account of what happened is completely true. These events are however entirely devoid of my memory, and I still insist because I do not remember any of them, they did not really happen. Unfortunately, many witnesses can attest to the truth and abhorrence of my behavior.

Upon return to my seat, I am intensely drunk and dangerously nauseous. The putrid concoction of buttery popcorn and cheap vodka are not playing nice in my stomach.

I begin to sweat profusely, those small beads that build up near the top of your back and drip slowly down into your ass-crack. My mouth begins to water, that thin, loose saliva that is created to protect your enamel from the acidic onslaught, right before your insides are about to explode up through your esophagus and on to the group of kids sitting two rows in front of you.

Fortunately for my fellow movie-goers, as well as SZM, Tina, and Lola, I am able to confine my involuntary purging to a small and neat puddle directly in front of where I am sitting. It is at this point that I conclude my chances of hooking-up with Lola have all but vanished, as my breath is now a rancid mixture of stomach bile, half-digested popcorn, and liquor.

This in and of itself is not entirely shameful. But to make matters worse, I decide that not only am I going to expel my small intestine on the floor, I am no longer going to be constricted by societal bounds, deciding that I will now take off my shirt in the middle of the movie.

That’s right, after vomiting in front of one of my best friends, his date, and some unassuming Spanish girl; I feel the need to further embarrass myself by exposing my white flabby stomach to the public at large.

But wait, it gets worse.

After readjusting my shirt and getting comfortable in my seat, I now feel the need to urinate. Again, like the village-idiot I have morphed into, I disregard the conventional method for relieving this problem. At this point I feel it is completely appropriate to whip out my cock, and try to pee into the now empty bottle of liquor that created the demonically possessed monster I have now turned into.

I can only imagine the image of American’s in the eyes of Lola. I have failed myself, and my country.

It is at this point in the tragic-comedy that is my life, that some sense of normalcy is restored to this sordid tale. I begin to gather my belongings and stumble my way out of the movie theater.

Apparently the crowd, who had observed me in action, began to cheer as I made my departure. I can’t say much to defend myself, because if I saw some shoddy drunken ass-clown do what I had just done, I would have made a point to publicly ridicule and humiliate him.

Because SZM drove to me to the movies, I have no clear discourse on how to get home. So, like Moses through the desert, I begin to walk. Thankfully, it is at this point, that my brain relieves itself of the surplus of alcohol, and I finally regain full consciousness of my surroundings.

As I come out of my blacked-out alcohol induced stupor, I find myself walking down the side of a road, smoking a cigarette, clothes fully covered in my own piss and vomit. A more depressing moment in my life, I cannot think of.

Again, I am wrong.

When I finally arrive back at my house, I realize that I do not have a key, and I do not want to ring the doorbell and wake up the parents. The best plan I can forge at this moment, is to try to hop in the window of my room. (I could have easily opened a gate and walked into my garage and got into the house, but for some reason this does not register as a viable solution.)

There I stand, sloppy drunk, outside my own house at midnight, trying to break in. I stumble to outside my window, making the feeblest of attempts to tear off the screen and force my body up the four foot outer wall and safely on to my computer desk. I manage to get half of my carcass through the window, when I hear footsteps coming down the hallway.

SHIT. FUCK. SHIT!!!

My mother appears in the doorway to my room.

The look of disappointment that was cast upon me does not even begin to encapsulate the true quality of that parent-offspring moment.